


The Fountain of Youth

by nebulyre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, For Science!, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Professors, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Potions Accident, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 85,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulyre/pseuds/nebulyre
Summary: Fifteen years after he left, Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts as a Potions Master for one purpose: to find an ancient potion rumoured to be the Fountain of Youth. Everything is fine. ...Until he meets the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and some odd potions experiments keep throwing them together in compromising situations."Draco’s heart had skipped a beat. Despite the mess, and the dirt, and the sweat, and the tatters, Potter still looked...good. He wasn’t supposed to look good. He was supposed to be covered in warts and boils and missing all of his teeth and turning into a troll and...not this. Lean and muscled and delicious and fucking devouring Draco with his eyes. Merlin. Had he been looking at Potter like that too?"
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 125
Kudos: 1072





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning notes, just in case: This is not beta read. There are references to character death, mild violence, mild torture, and mild underage sex. This story is intended to be fun and light overall, but please take care of yourself as you see fit.
> 
> You are welcome to link to this story, but please do not re-post.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!
> 
> Keep calm and fanfic on, my friends!

It had been fifteen long years since Draco had last seen it. Yet there it was, just the same as he remembered and coming into view: the dark silhouette of Hogwarts, its castle towers stabbing into a red sky. It was a most appropriate colour, seeing as it had been slick with death the last time he had seen it. 

But he didn’t _want_ to think about the war. After the war, after the trials, after the whole dark mess of of it, he had just wanted-- _needed_ \--to get away. Away from memory. Away from aristocracy. Away from politics and purebloods and propriety. Away from stuffy rooms and judging eyes and expectations for his future. All of it. So he ran. 

And ran.

And kept running.

He had been running ever since.

He had been abroad for well over a decade, traveling from country to country, moving from one research project to another, surviving solely on grants and donations. He didn’t _need_ the money, it was true, but in the early days being paid kept him away from his father. After the war, he swore would never ask anything of his father ever again. He had asked for love and protection, and look where that had gotten him. He would not be caught dead on his knees begging his father for a single knut. So he worked. He traveled, he researched, and he worked. It was a most un-Malfoyan lifestyle, which meant that he trusted it.

He served on committee after committee wherever he traveled, abandoning traditional aristocracy for new forms of power and influence. Whenever he made a new discovery, he published his findings in prestigious journals like _Contemporary Potions Studies_ or _Journal of the International Potions Society_ . He was constantly on the move, seeking ancient or forgotten potions and recipes wherever they led him: archaeological digs, research facilities, academic institutions. Above all, he was seeking new people who didn’t know his name. People who wouldn’t see him and think: _Death Eater_. People who, instead, might think: that’s the one who wrote that brilliant article for _Potions Today._ He had never stayed in the same place for very long, and he certainly wouldn’t be staying at Hogwarts for very long either. 

Hogwarts wasn’t his first choice. In fact, he didn’t _want_ to return to Hogwarts at all. The only reason he was sitting on the Hogwarts Express was because Hogwarts was the last possible place that contained it: The Fountain of Youth. And he had to find it. Because if he found it, it would be such a monumental discovery that it would make his career. It would undoubtedly wash away his past. He would no longer be known as Draco Malfoy, Death Eater. He would be known as the man who discovered The Fountain of Youth. And then, he would go abroad again to make some other brilliant discovery and find respect all over again.

Witches and wizards had been whispering about a Fountain of Youth for hundreds of years. It wasn’t some mythological fountain like existed in Muggle folklore. No, it was real. It _had_ been real. He had found enough ancient texts across different ancient cultures referencing its medicinal uses to know just how real it had been. And then something happened. It got lost in history, in The Siege, a brief time when healing potions were believed to be as evil as dark magic because of their potential effects on the body. All healing potions had been destroyed, along with any texts containing their ingredients.

It _became_ myth. 

Until Draco assembled enough ancient texts, previously believed to be lost, to prove that it wasn’t a myth at all. He had encountered the first fragment while at a dig site in Mexico. He had found additional references in Siberia. And cave paintings in Australia. But the most significant discovery, the discovery that convinced him that the potion was real and he could actually _find_ it, had been Egypt. He had been exploring wizard tombs in Ancient Egypt, assisting with a search for ancient potion ingredients left in burial sites. He _had_ found plenty of dried ancient potion ingredients. But he also found the Tomb of Hannu, which contained the largest collection of ancient texts referencing the Fountain of Youth he had ever seen. It was in the hieroglyphs on the walls. It was in the papyrus rolled in jars. Not only did the texts contain a partial list of ingredients, but the texts indicated that it had been _in the tomb._ In the treasure chest containing Hannu’s jewels for the afterlife, there had also been a vial of the Fountain of Youth. An actual, surviving vial. 

Of course, Draco never actually found the vial in the tomb, because he later discovered that the tomb had already been ransacked sometime in the 1910s by Havartus E. Carter, wizard archaeologist famous for chauvinistic unprofessionalism and reckless archaeological practices.

Draco sighed and leaned his temple against the window. It was early September and still warm yet, so the window felt comfortable against his skin. The trolley witch was in the hall, shouting, “It’s time!” and a couple of students ran toward her in the hall to make their final payments for sweets. As he listened to the _click-clack_ of the train wheels, Draco knew he only had a few minutes left before his arrival. He had to finalize his plan. 

The first thing Draco had done, when the grant for the Egyptian archaeological dig had ended, was visit Carter’s estate and attempt to track down the vial that Carter had ransacked from the tomb. Even if the vial wasn’t at the estate, and he had doubted it would be, he had at least hoped to acquire more detailed lists of his archaeological discoveries and donations. But this was Havartus E. Carter. Of _course_ there weren’t detailed lists. Draco was only left with a single lead. The people at Carter’s estate had explained that in his lifetime, Carter had donated all of his discoveries to two major organizations: the National Museum of Wizarding Artifacts in London, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, his alma mater. And Draco had already been to London.

The Hogwarts Express lurched as it crossed a bridge, and Draco’s head shook from side to side, still gently pressed against the glass window. The door to his compartment slid open, and two young girls with armfuls of sweets blinked at him from the hallway in embarrassment. Draco simply stared at them. One of the girls, who had shoulder-length orange hair and a vaguely familiar bone structure, angled her head to one side, studying him with open curiosity until the other girl was dragging her out of the car by her robes. Soon they were running down the hall and hadn’t even bothered to slide the door closed again behind them. He would have to get used to that, he thought. Being surrounded by children. Possibly being friendly to them, even. On second thought, possibly not. Snape had gotten along perfectly well without ever being _friendly_ to children. Draco was probably fine to be himself. Whoever that was. He had never stayed in one place long enough to really find out.

When Draco had overheard someone in London say that Slughorn was retiring, it was all too perfect. He applied for the position of Potions Master, doubtful that he would even be considered for the position. With his history at Hogwarts and his associations with a certain Dark Lord, he suspected they wouldn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms.

But what other option did he have?

He had already considered the far more simple option of asking Hogwarts what they knew about the potion, if they knew anything at all, just like he had asked the Carter Estate. After all, most donations to Hogwarts ended up in a dungeon or a secret room somewhere never to be seen again. It wasn’t like they would _miss_ it. And the 20th century headmasters had not been known for their supreme record-keeping skills; he would be doing them a favour, really. But everyone at Hogwarts knew him too well. In fact, he was fairly convinced that the headmistress _hated_ him; he didn’t know how she couldn’t. Besides, what would he say? He supposed he would just walk up to Hogwarts and say: _Hello, it’s Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, remember me? I’d like to explore your dungeons--remember the last time I did that, trying to find a way to let the Death Eaters inside?--care to let me in?_ And they would surely say: _Why of course, please explore our dungeons for a powerful legendary potion; wouldn’t it be great if you pass it to your fellow Death Eaters so the next Dark Lord can be even stronger than the last one?_ No.

There was no way that could possibly go well. 

However, if he could enter Hogwarts on the premise of being a _teacher_ , with all of the freedoms to explore the Hogwarts grounds that teachers received? That was the far more promising option, and somehow he had actually managed to do it. Although, now that he was actually encountering giggling children on the Hogwarts Express, it was an option he was deeply reconsidering. 

The Hogwarts Express hissed and came to a gradual stop. He stood and braced himself against the opposite wall. Anxiety swelled in his gut. He hadn’t finished his plan. He hadn’t finished his _plan_. Oh Merlin, what had he gotten himself into? He knew he had to move. He knew he had to get off of this train and move forward to meet the house elf at the base of Hogwarts, just like the note attached to the owl had said. Most professors arrived at least a week before the students arrived, but Draco’s research had gone on just long enough to obligate him to return with the students. And now he was unexpectedly petrified.

He looked at his reflection in the dark glass of his window: his newly purchased black and green robes, his long hair secured with a velvet green ribbon at the back of his neck. A stranger might think he actually looked like a Potions Master, but he didn’t feel like one. He didn’t even feel grown. He felt like a child, as shy and nervous as he had felt when he had first stepped onto this train. 

He was about to step onto Hogwarts grounds. 

He was about to step onto _Hogwarts grounds_.

Hogwarts, where he had first fallen in love with Potions. Hogwarts, where he learned how to fly! Hogwarts, where he had owned the halls with Crabbe and Goyle, raising a little hell just for fun. Oh, that had felt so bloody fantastic, so innocently youthful, so naively _free_. Hogwarts, where he had snogged his first boy. Hogwarts, where his favourite past-time was vexing Harry Potter and insulting his friends. There were so many enjoyable things. So many _good_ things. He had almost forgotten the good things. It was easy to, when the bad things were so, so _bad_. When the nightmares felt so much stronger. When one decision he made as a kid, which had hardly even been a decision really, had ruined his entire life. Was _still_ ruining his life.

This was actually happening. This was real. 

He felt like an imposter. He _was_ an imposter. How could anyone have wanted him here? How could he have actually been qualified enough for this position? How had he gotten through endless stages of interviews? How-- _why_ \--was he actually _here_? What the bloody hell was he _doing_? 

Draco took a deep breath. It was too late now. He decided to do what he always did in times like these. He had done it the first time he was on this train, and he could do it now: act far, far more confident than he actually felt. He straightened his shoulders and stepped back, smoothing out his robes and running his hands over his golden hair. It _was_ golden now, sun-stained from his years of outdoor work. He couldn’t remember when he had grown his hair out exactly; it was sometime after his father had died. He found that he liked pulling it back into a messy bun during a dig to keep it securely out of his face. His skin was a little more sun-tanned as well, although his time at the museum in London had already started him back on the path to pale. He lifted his dark dragon-leather satchel over a shoulder and stepped off the train, feeling like a giant as children eagerly scurried around him. _Just find the potion_ , he told himself. _Just find the potion, and you can leave._ Spending too much time in one place made him nervous anyway. _  
_

As expected, a house elf was waiting for him in the Hogwarts keep. “Are you Mr. Malfoy, sir?” The house elf asked meekly. Draco nodded. “Please follow me, Mr. Malfoy, sir.”

They wove through crowds of excited students toward the professors’ wing, where Draco was directed to his new living quarters. “I am to instruct you to visit the headmistress’ office as soon as you are settled. You remember the location of the head office, Mr. Malfoy, sir?”

Draco nodded again. _Granger_. The headmistress. By some miracle he had avoided her until now. She wasn’t present in any of his interviews. Now he was realizing that he hadn’t really thought this part through. He would have to actually _face_ Hermione Granger. Granger, in some strange twist of fate, now employed him. He inwardly cringed at the endless insults he had once thrown her way without a second thought. She must absolutely despise him. _Merlin_ , his aunt had tortured her in his family’s _house_ for fuck’s sake. After fifteen years he still wasn’t sure he was ready to face her. He didn’t even know how to begin making amends, or if there were any amends he could even make. Perhaps she had hired him simply so that she could make his life as much of a living hell as he had once made hers.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Malfoy, sir?” the house elf asked as Draco surveyed his new home. The room was much larger than he had expected, with a wide bed to the left and a fireplace and sitting area to the right. Toward the back of the room there was a narrow hallway with doors to a small storage room and the bathroom. It was more space than he'd had to himself in over a decade. It was entirely possible, Draco realized with a rush of emotion, that these could have been Snape’s quarters once. ...Except someone had made them extra posh. Draco had become so accustomed to a narrow room or tent shared with one to three other people, that this looked like Malfoy Mansion. And that bed. Silk. So much silk. He had spent the latter half of his life sleeping on some version of a stiff bunk with rough linen sheets, and now that bed looked like actual heaven. Draco waited until the elf disappeared with a _pop_ before he pulled his leather satchel over his head and set it in a chair, resisting a childish urge to jump up and down on his new silk bed. 

-

It wasn’t a very long walk down the hall to Dumbledore’s old office. Snape’s old office. McGonagall’s old office. Granger’s office now. Draco smoothed his robes against his chest one more time before climbing the spiral staircase. Headmasters of the ages watched him guardedly as he climbed the stairs. Several threw insults at him, but he remained silent and on his guard. As he neared the top, he could see the walls decorated with red and gold. He could see a room filled with books and trophies and trinkets. He reached the top of the stairs, where a mewling cat announced his presence. The room was filled with a warm, homelike energy. 

Granger sat behind a large desk, scribbling something onto parchment with an elegant quill. Her hair, still frizzy and wild, was pulled back into a loose ponytail. He'd heard that she married Weasley, but either they had gotten divorced or she had kept her name, because a metallic placard rested on her desk that read “H. Granger,” and he certainly wasn’t about to ask. She looked up at him. 

“Professor Malfoy,” she said, coming around her desk. “Welcome back.” He wasn’t sure what he had expected, exactly, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t kindness. Apprehensive warmth and kindness, perhaps. Cautious warmth and kindness, to be sure. But everything in her stance implied that she was going to be professional and give him the opportunity to prove himself. He and Granger had never been on good terms, ever, and yet she was welcoming him better than he felt he deserved. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgment, folded his hands behind his back, and took a short stroll around the room to try to distract himself from asking her the one question on his tongue: _why him._ Instead, he studied all of the things that both had and hadn’t changed since Dumbledore’s time. McGonagall’s portrait was right next to Dumbledore’s and Snape’s on the wall closest to Granger’s desk. Granger had to be one of the youngest leaders of Hogwarts in history, but it suited her. She had always been an excellent scholar; Draco had never, at least internally, denied that much. 

“I take it you were directed to your rooms alright?”

“Yes.”

“Their last occupant was Potions Master Severus Snape. Harry thought you might like them.” 

Draco nearly tripped over the rug. _Harry_ thought he might like them? Harry who _?_ Surely not Harry _Potter_?

“Allow me to show you to your office,” Granger said, waving him down the stairs after her.

Draco followed her back down the spiral staircase and down the hall into the next wing. Draco already knew where they were going--the old Potions classroom. 

“You remember most of this from your school days, I expect? Some areas were rebuilt after the war, but on the whole it should be the same.” Granger opened the door wide to the Potions classroom. “I trust I can skip the grand tour of the castle?”

Draco nodded. He still remembered the castle as clearly as if he had only left it yesterday. When he stepped inside the Potions classroom, Draco inhaled and was instantly filled with nostalgia. It was a smell he didn’t even realize he had missed--half-burned potions and misfired spells, layered with that distinctly unique Hogwarts scent of pumpkin spice and woodsmoke against cool stone. 

They crossed the classroom and Hermione opened the Potions office door with a wave of her wand. She cast light into the dark office, revealing a large room with a wide wooden desk and walls covered by bookshelves. Most of the bookshelves were empty, but there were at least 25 Potions books and some dried herbs scattered throughout the office. As Draco's eyes scanned the green and gold armchair in the corner, the one where he'd sat when he wanted to discuss a Potions question or needed some additional tutoring, he could almost see Severus Snape sitting behind his desk. Everywhere Draco looked was a memory. He hadn’t expected this. He had expected this part to be easier, somehow. He hadn’t expected to feel so _emotional_. It was so unlike what he was used to, where every new job meant a new place with new faces--strangers he could detach from before any pesky attachments could develop. He reached for the doorframe and took an unsteady breath, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“M-- Professor Malfoy?”

“Why _me,_ Granger?” He felt his stomach clench a little as soon as he had spoken the words.

Granger smiled a little awkwardly, as though she had already asked herself the same question. “What’s the old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

Malfoy forced half of a laugh, crossing his arms protectively around his middle as he stared at the floor. Part of him wanted to shout, _What’s the old saying? Once a Mudblood always a Mudblood?_ but he bit his tongue. He needed to find the Fountain of Youth, and he certainly wouldn’t find it by turning the headmistress of Hogwarts against him. He didn’t give a damn about blood purity, besides. He never really had; he'd just been an idiot. He'd thought it was just something you _said_ in school if you were someone like Draco Malfoy. It was like calling someone Four-Eyes or Scarhead. “I’m sure there were more qualified candidates.”

“There weren’t, actually. Your reputation precedes you, Professor Malfoy. The work you’ve been doing is exquisite. I am particularly eager to discuss your work in Siberia, whenever you feel more settled.”

“I’d like that.” He still wasn’t quite comfortable with the fact that Granger was treating him—well, mostly—as if nothing negative had ever transpired between them. It was hard for him to believe that she wasn’t bitter. Instead, he actually found himself impressed. If she _was_ feeling anything, she hid it as well as a Pureblood politician. And if she wasn’t feeling anything, it meant that she had recovered from the past far better than he had. Regardless, the fact that she seemed to be expressing genuine interest in his academic work was exciting. He was eager to discuss his more advanced work with anyone who would listen--which, as it so happens, wasn’t very many people. The moment he ever began eagerly discussing the polarities of potion substances, the elemental components of wolfsbane, the protonic behavior of wormwood, people had a tendency to gloss over. But not Granger. He let his arms relax. He felt his shields coming down already.

Granger locked up the office with a swish of her wand. “Do you have the key memorized?” she asked, repeating the motion she had used to unlock the door. Draco imitated the movement of her wand with his own and the office door clicked open before he locked it again. “Good,” she said, and turned back toward the classroom, leading him into the hallway. “I’d also love to discuss your findings in Cairo,” she said, locking the classroom door. “Oh, and your paper comparing ancient potions of Transylvania? Brilliant.” She sighed, turning to face him in the hallway. “ _You_ were chosen _,_ Malfoy, because your accomplishments are unparalleled. When it comes right down to it: I trust your academics, and Harry trusts _you_. You have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

There was that _name_ again. She couldn’t possibly be referring to Potter. But Potter was the only Harry that he knew. Draco moved to face Granger, positive that it expressed his confusion even in the dim torchlight of the hallway. “You mean Harry _Potter_?”

“Of course. You do...remember him?” Granger asked cautiously. Remember him? How the hell could anyone forget Harry bloody Potter? But more importantly--Potter _trusted_ him? Since when did Potter _trust_ him? And why was Granger discussing Potter as though he had any sway over executive decisions at Hogwarts? As if reading his mind, Granger added, “He _is_ the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher here at Hogwarts, after all.”

Draco stared, certain that without a lifetime of pureblood etiquette dictating his every movement, his jaw would be hanging open. He couldn’t respond. His mouth had gone completely dry.

“You didn’t know?” Granger asked, her mouth narrowing into a concerned frown. He simply shook his head. The last he had heard, Potter had made Auror before going off and marrying the Weaslette. Head Auror, possibly. He purposely tried to avoid reading the papers whenever Potter was concerned.

“Oh dear. Well. He is currently away on business at the moment, but he is expected back in a few days. You have time to...prepare. Or...whatever it is you need to do.” She shifted uncomfortably and then let out an explosive sigh. "I'm sorry, Malfoy, but as it pertains to the welfare of this school I really must ask. Will you be...capable? Of working professionally in such close proximity to Harry?”

“Of course I will,” he said a little more snappily than he meant to, hoping that his voice sounded more confident than he felt.

Granger bit her lip and nodded a little nervously.

“What time did you say dinner was?”

“Seven o’clock. The faculty are meeting several minutes early to parade in as part of the opening ceremony. Meet us by the gargoyle?”

-

Once back in the safety of his rooms, Draco took a closer look at his surroundings. 

He ran his eyes along the Slytherin-themed regalia on the walls, the green and gold rug that covered most of the room’s pale green marble tile, the carved golden swirls at the corners of the ceiling, the overstuffed green leather armchair by a cozy fireplace. Above the mantle, there was a wooden plaque on which shimmering green gems had been crafted into the shape of a snake. _Harry thought you might like them_. Draco collapsed onto his soft bed, rolling in a mountain of silken green pillows as he admired the the dark wooden bed posts carved into the shapes of coiling serpents and thick green bed curtains. _Harry thought you might like them_. Draco _did_ like them, and that was the worst part. All of it was so luxurious and _clean_. Not a hint of sand or linen or a broken mattress spring. But why was Potter thinking about Draco’s rooms? About where he lives? About where he sleeps? It felt so personal, somehow. So intimate.

 _Harry trusts you_.

Why couldn’t he get those words out of his head? _Harry trusts you._ And why was the absent-minded Potter spending so much time thinking in great detail about the room that contained his _bed_? Malfoy rolled over and shoved his head into a pillow. He did not want to be thinking about Harry Potter.

The truth was, he already thought about Potter far more often than he would have liked. He often wondered how Potter was doing, but he refused to ever try and find out. He thought about those wonderful times he had grimaced at Potter, insulted Potter, tried to be better than Potter, disliked Potter, despised Potter, hated Potter, hated Potter, _hated_ Potter. Yet, inevitably, he sometimes thought about how desperately he had wanted Potter to take his hand on the train when they first met. He thought about the way Potter adamantly defended his family at the trials, saying things like, “The Malfoys are innocent, and were simply swept up in events beyond their control.” Or when the prosecutor was questioning Potter about the murder of Albus Dumbledore with sly words, and Potter had interrupted him in a fury, saying, “You’re twisting the question, sir. Draco didn’t do anything wrong, nor was he going to. I know because I was there.” And the way Potter had looked at Draco--right at him--when he added, “Draco has a good heart. If he did anything that night, it was change the course of history and allow me to win the war.” And how it had made something in Draco melt a little. _A good heart_ , Merlin. No one in the history of _ever_ would dare suggest such a preposterous thing. Yet, leave it to Harry Potter to defy an entire courtroom and suggest that Draco Malfoy _has a good heart_. What rubbish. What sentimental, heart-melting rubbish.

...Sometimes Draco even thought about the way Potter used to peel his sweat-soaked uniform over his head in the changing room after a Quidditch match. ...The way his muscles would roll so beautifully along his shoulder blades and... Draco shook the thought from his head. Back to focusing on the hatred. The hatred of Potter.

Draco sighed. 

He sank onto the bed and slid his hands down his face, trying to breathe. Eventually he would have to actually _face_ Potter. He could face a train full of screaming children. He could face Granger, who had every reason to despise him. But somehow the thought of facing Potter was so much worse. So much harder. He hadn’t actually seen Potter since the trials, and even then they hadn’t spoken directly. Come to think of it, they hadn’t actually _spoken_ to each other since...since the Fiendfyre, probably. Since the war. He owed Potter his life; he owed Potter everything, and yet it still felt wrapped up in a mess of bitter emotions that Draco had no desire to begin to analyze or untangle. What would he say to Potter when he saw him? What could he possibly say? He had been running since the war, and he _still_ wasn’t ready to stop running and face Potter. “Ugh,” he groaned into his hands. “Pull yourself together, Malfoy.” Draco stood, washed his face in the sink, and then dabbed himself dry with a towel. Even the towels were green and delightfully soft. He looked up to find himself staring into a gold-framed mirror. He lifted his sharp chin from side to side as he studied the edges of his face--the masculine lines of his nose and jaw, the smooth hair held at the nape of his neck with green ribbon--making sure nothing looked out of place. “Be professional. This is business.” Just business, his mind repeated. “Right,” he muttered, a little disturbed that it sounded more like a question than a statement.

-

Draco stood by the gargoyle, tapping his foot while he waited for dinner to be announced. There was no sign of Granger, and none of the other professors had spoken a word to him. None of them even acknowledged his existence. He may as well have been the gargoyle. 

As he stared at his watch, pretending to be enraptured by the time, his thoughts drifted to Cornelius Howe, as they often did when he felt completely alone. Cornelius had been one of his colleagues during a research expedition in Norway. He and Cornelius had shared a caravan located between the research base and the forest where they were doing their research. 

From the moment Draco met Cornelius, he felt inexplicably angry in Cornelius’s presence. He respected the man’s knowledge of Norwegian flora, to be sure, but also thought he was a complete git. He hated the way Cornelius read his newspaper in the morning. He hated the way Cornelius would sit giggling at the kitchen table, writing gossip-rich editorials for _The Daily Prophet_. He hated the way Cornelius’ slender hips swayed as he moved about the caravan, and the way he always walked around the caravan after a shower with dripping wet hair and no shirt to speak of.

Thus, Draco purposely arranged his schedule to interact with Cornelius as little as possible. Draco would wake up before dawn just so he could mull about the caravan’s kitchen in solitude before marching into the forest alone to collect specimens. He would come back long after Cornelius had gone to sleep or, if Draco was feeling particularly exhausted, he would slip back to the caravan when Cornelius was at the research base in the evenings. 

Of course, that all changed one morning when Draco accidentally had a bit of a lie-in, and came out to find Cornelius sitting at the small table near the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading his newspaper _._ Draco still remembered the way the sunlight seemed to shine only on Cornelius, on the way he mindlessly slid his top lip back and forth along the rim of the mug before taking a sip. He felt such an unexpected surge of attraction to Cornelius in that moment.

“Morning, Draco,” Cornelius had muttered without even looking up. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about--” Draco had stumbled toward the door and out of the caravan as if Cornelius had come down with dragonpox. He ran into the forest without a morsel of breakfast and couldn’t even be bothered to care.

Draco didn’t _want_ to be attracted to Cornelius. Draco didn’t have _time_ to be attracted to Cornelius. He didn’t have the _patience_ for emotional entanglements. Furthermore, it made Draco feel dangerously vulnerable. The last time he allowed himself to get attached to _friends_ , one went and burned to death before his very eyes, and most of the others ended up in Azkaban. He couldn't deal with any more of that now; he was focusing on his career.

In the weeks that followed, if Draco couldn’t avoid Cornelius completely, he would be as unpleasant as possible. He would insult Cornelius’ taste in shampoo, insult his cooking, insult any little habit he could latch on to. Focusing on these annoyances helped him keep his attraction to Cornelius at bay. Focusing on Cornelius’ negative traits allowed Draco to _not_ fall more madly in love with him than he already was.

And then it happened.

Draco had been in the middle of the forest one morning, crouched low and peacefully scraping frosted flora from the dirt floor in order to test its similarities to an ancient specimen of dried Frost Root, when a new and terrifying thought suddenly slammed into his brain. His thoughts often wandered while out doing fieldwork; there was always lots of contemplating and soul searching, that much was normal. But this particular thought? This was something else entirely. He had been reflecting on his feelings toward Cornelius, trying to make sense of the attraction, the anger, the insults. And, to his horror, it dawned on him that he had always felt that way about Harry Potter. Multiplied by one hundred.

He certainly hadn’t expected to have a life epiphany there, in the middle of nowhere in a Norwegian forest, and it quite literally dropped him on his ass. He fell back onto the dirt, staring at the trees with wide eyes and the new realization that maybe, just maybe, his feelings toward Potter had been more complex than simple hatred. That maybe he actually... _Merlin,_ it was nauseating...had _feelings_ for Potter. _Non-hateful feelings_. For the boy he was convinced he _despised_ with every fiber of his being. That was like being hit by the fucking Hogwarts Express.

He wasn’t sure why, but something possessed him to drop everything he was doing in that instant and run back to the caravan. When he threw open the door, he saw Cornelius sitting at the kitchen table, blinking up at him in the sunlight. “Morning, Draco,” he said without looking up. “Forget something?”

Draco had marched across the room, stared at Cornelius for a moment over the edge of that damned newspaper, and then snogged him right then and there as if proving a point to himself. Well, he _was_ proving a point. He had a theory and he was proving it. Luckily, Cornelius didn’t seem to mind. A few minutes later, flushed and feeling rather drunk as Draco returned to the forest, he realized that he still had dirt on his palms.

He and Cornelius dated for a few months. They were even happy for a while.

Eventually though, Cornelius discovered that Draco was a former Death Eater and it had all gone up in smoke. He didn’t even give Draco the courtesy of a break-up note. When Draco woke up after their first night together, the caravan was empty. Cornelius had taken his things and apparated to who-knows-where. Draco never saw him again.

That was why, Draco reminded himself, he didn’t _need_ friends. That was why he should be perfectly content to stare at his watch as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. That was why he stood a little straighter beside the gargoyle, trying to appear purposeful rather than rejected. 

At any rate, this was exactly why he needed to do everything he could to put his past behind him, to rebuild his name. He _needed_ to find the Fountain of Youth. This would change his career. This would change the entire Wizarding World. And maybe people would finally be able to look at him and think _Brilliant Potions Master_ rather than _Death Eater._ He would play nice for as long as he needed to, until he was able to learn what he needed to learn, and then be free of the wretched place.

-

Draco sat at the head table in a daze. How strange it all was, seeing the world from the opposite side of this table. He looked out at all of the excited young faces, suddenly nostalgic for his own childhood. For that _confidence_ , naive and misplaced though it may have been. It had been a long, long time since he had felt anything close to it. 

Draco watched with grim amusement as the Sorting Hat chose students’ futures for them. Would things have been different if the hat had chosen a different house for him? Would his life had played out any differently if he had been surrounded by different friends, different influences? Draco supposed it didn’t matter. He was where he was and that was the end of it. He tried to memorize as many first years as he could, Slytherin or otherwise, before his brain stopped working and he felt a growing anticipation for the feast. His ears perked up, however, when the Sorting Hat shouted, “Lily Luna Potter!”

A _Potter_? Of course, _that’s_ why the girl from the train looked familiar. Draco watched her walk toward the Sorting Hat. The Weasley hair, the Potter bone structure. It suddenly made sense. She was Potter-Weasel heathen spawn.

“Go Sis!” a dark-haired boy from the Gryffindor table called. _Two_ Potters? Bloody hell, Potter and Female Weasley had been busy, hadn’t they? The real question was: had they shagged immediately after the war, or before? 

“Gryffindor!” Called the sorting hat, after an unusually long deliberation.

Before the war, Draco decided, studying the Potter-Weasel boy as Lily Luna walked over to the Gryffindor table and gave him a high five. Definitely before. Oh, what a scandal. Draco almost regretted not picking up a newspaper to read all about Potter’s teenage lovechild and, most likely, consequent overhasty marriage. 

Well, the war made everyone a little crazy. Everyone was convinced they were going to die anyway, probably Potter most of all. Frankly, Draco was surprised they hadn’t _all_ been shagging. 

...Well, there _was_ that delightful fling with that Ravenclaw boy during the summer before sixth year. 

...No. Best not think about that with children present.

Granger stood and gave the welcoming speech. The students were in complete awe of her, and even Draco had to concede that she held herself with enough grace and poise to seem superhuman. Ron Weasley sat at her right side. Judging by the way that Weasley, who was apparently the Quidditch coach--nevermind the nepotism there--beamed at Granger, Draco guessed that they were still happily married. A flash of their wedding bands in the candlelight confirmed it. Clearly Weasley was not as content with Draco’s presence as Granger was, if his furrowed orange eyebrows were any indication. Weasley had already attempted to murder Draco with his eyes several times, and dinner hadn’t even appeared yet. Weasley leaned forward to look disgustedly down the table at Malfoy for the upteenth time, as if he couldn’t even believe what he was seeing was real.

Draco had often eaten quite well in his travels, but nothing quite rivaled a Hogwarts meal. When the food appeared at his table, the first thing he reached for was a slice of shepherd’s pie. His fork sliced through the crust like air and it practically melted in his mouth. He swallowed it down with a full goblet of pumpkin juice. 

In fact, Draco was still guzzling his pumpkin juice, staring blissfully at the starry ceiling, when the doors to the Great Hall slammed open. Malfoy nearly choked, and as he looked toward the door it took all of his good breeding to not spit pumpkin juice all over the table. There, standing silhouetted against the light of the hallway and looking more disheveled than ever, was Harry James Potter.


	2. Chapter 2

Later that night, Draco couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, staring into the dark. _Stop fucking thinking about Harry bloody Potter_. But he couldn’t help it. Details from the evening kept sinking back into his mind. 

The way Potter had walked into the Great Hall, boots trailing mud on the floor. The way his robes were open and hanging in tatters around him. The way his sweaty black t-shirt had clung tightly to his torso. The way his pale jeans had been tattered enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh. The way his robes had swayed with him as he walked and how, as if suddenly thinking of decorum as he entered, he made an attempt to smooth out his wild hair, straighten his crooked spectacles, and button his robes. The way his thin beard and dark hair, still haphazardly attached to his head, had made Potter look positively haggard. It was clear that Potter hadn’t shaved in at least a week. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t showered for that long either. Potter hadn’t even made an attempt to wash his face, which looked like it had gotten into a fight with a fireplace and lost. 

“Dad!” Lily Luna had called from the Gryffindor table, and ran toward Potter. He swooped her up, pecked her on the cheek, and paused in the middle of the Great Hall. His ugly duckling had wrapped her arms around Potter’s neck and was whispering something into his ear. The results of the Sorting Hat, no doubt. He had whispered something back, and she was nodding. He kissed her on the cheek again, set her down, and continued alone toward the head table. 

Malfoy had been sitting three seats to the left of Headmistress Granger at dinner, and it was clear that Potter was intending to walk straight toward her. But then, as he had approached the table, Potter’s eyes happened to glance his way. And stopped. Everything had stopped. Potter had stopped moving. The whole fucking room had stopped moving. Draco had even stopped breathing. Because their eyes had locked. Potter was staring directly at him, and Draco was staring directly back. _Those eyes_ . It was like he had suddenly gone back in time. True, Potter’s eyes looked wearier. Wiser, perhaps, but sadder too. And he had adorable little crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as his mouth lifted into a barely noticeable smile. And Draco’s heart had skipped a beat. Despite the mess, and the dirt, and the sweat, and the tatters, Potter still looked... _good_ . He wasn’t supposed to look good. He was supposed to be covered in warts and boils and missing all of his teeth and turning into a troll and...not _this_ . Lean and muscled and delicious and fucking _devouring_ Draco with his eyes. Merlin. Had _he_ been looking at Potter like that too? And then his hearing had finally come back, and Granger was calling Potter’s name, and Potter redirected his gaze. “Sorry...er...dragon,” was all he said before crawling under the head table like an undisciplined child--who _does_ that?--and taking a seat next to Weasley before reaching for a whole turkey leg. Draco intentionally avoided Potter for the rest of dinner, which was easy because they were sitting on the same side of the table with four people between them. But he could still hear Weasley give some sort of exclamation every now and then, and Potter’s resulting laughter. He could see Potter’s hand reach for a glass of mead every now and then. He gathered pieces of Potter’s tale--something about an old Auror case he had been called in for and a Dark Lord worshipper.

Draco had bristled then, tightening his black leather cuff around his arm. Well, it was more of a gauntlet, really, since it covered his arm from his wrist to just below his elbow. He always wore it over his Dark Mark, ever since the end of the war. He thought that, if he kept it covered, people would forget. He thought that maybe he could start a new life. What a fool he had been. There was no way to escape the past. He had been a Death Eater. He had been a servant of the Dark Lord. He would never truly belong at Hogwarts--not after the terrible things he had done on these same grounds. He would never truly belong anywhere. And he would certainly never capture the attentions of one Harry Potter. Not that he wanted to, of course. Because he despised Potter. Definitely despised him. And how could he have imagined that Potter had been staring at _him_ \--rather enchantingly he might add--in the middle of the Great Hall? How could the world’s Golden Boy ever be interested in a former Death Eater? It was Potter’s _job_ to hunt, capture, and imprison Death Eaters, and then teach young witches and wizards to do the same. 

Malfoy kicked the blankets further down his bed, suddenly feeling overwarm. It was a good thing, he supposed, that he had no plans to stay at Hogwarts for any longer than was necessary, and he certainly had no plans to interact with Harry Potter. He couldn’t sleep, so he might as well get dressed and try to get some work done.

-

It was late, but not late enough to discourage Draco from doing a little exploring. He felt fairly confident that the Room of Requirement had been completely incinerated, so that would be of no use to him. Instead, he thought it would be best to head to the main dungeons. All sorts of things ended up beneath Hogwarts, from giant man-eating basilisks to priceless archaeological artifacts. One of these days he would really need to have a talk with the new librarian about the proper care of crumbling artifacts and the importance of humidity control. It was embarrassing.

Draco found the trapdoor that led into the dungeons and pulled the heavy iron coil attached to the wood. He eased the door back against the wooden floor as quietly as he could. He looked down into the dark square in the floor, trying to ignore the horrid smell and clammy air that now encircled him. There was really no telling what he would find, so he decided it would be best if he held his wand at the ready. Two laughably narrow stone steps were visible in the torchlight, but what lurked below them was anyone’s guess.

“Lost, Malfoy?”

Draco looked up with a start, suddenly aware of how utterly mischievous he probably looked. Harry Potter was leaning casually against the wall behind him next to a torch, looking as pleased with himself as a fucking peacock. His arms were folded across his chest and he had one ankle crossed over the other that held his weight. He was still a disheveled mess. Of course. Of _course_ Potter would come and foil his plans, just like always. Why was he even surprised?

Draco stared at Potter’s stupid beard, trying to come up with something to say. Well he couldn’t exactly say _yes_ . Because obviously one didn’t lift trapdoors and stare into dark recesses in the floor thinking _Why, what a grand idea, I’ll surely become less lost if I go down there!_ And he couldn’t exactly say no, because that opened a Pandora’s box of other questions that had the potential to get him sacked immediately. Luckily Potter’s eagerness to hear the sound of his own voice saved the day. 

“I really thought you’d be over these sneaky old habits by now. I’m disappointed, Malfoy.” Potter sighed with faux emphasis. “After all the work I put into your rooms, you’d still prefer the dungeons? Well, if you prefer to sleep with rats...” Potter shrugged, and gave Draco a very peculiar look, as though he were in on a very pitiful secret.

“Ha, ha, Potter,” Draco said flatly, slamming the trapdoor closed with his foot. “It’s good to see you’ve matured.”

“So you’re _not_ sleeping with rats, then?” Potter asked, jamming his hands into his pockets, peeling himself from the wall, and taking a few hopeful steps forward. He was grinning like an idiot, and it was making Draco nervous.

“Go jump in the lake,” Malfoy mumbled, stepping out of the dungeon alcove and into the hallway. So much for professionalism. There was something notably miraculous about Potter’s ability to transform him into a teen-aged boy. Maybe the Fountain of Youth was right under his nose. Maybe the Fountain of Youth was really Harry Potter, and all he had to do was jab a dozen needles into his neck to extract it. Gladly. Maybe then Potter wouldn’t look so bloody pleased with himself. Or maybe he would. 

For some reason, Potter was grinning at him like Draco was a fucking bunny rabbit in a den of werewolves. “Oh, Malfoy, I’ve missed you,” Potter said teasingly, with--was Draco reading that right?--a dollop of sincerity.

Draco walked past him, purposely bashing against Potter’s shoulder with his own as he continued down the hallway. Potter just wheeled around and walked beside him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” Draco asked.

“Not really. I’m on patrol.”

“Then you’d best get to it.” Draco said. 

“I found a suspicious character.”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you left me alone,” Draco said, walking a little faster.

“Have I ever?” Potter skipped ahead to keep up the pace.

“For about fifteen glorious years, in fact. Let’s go back to that, shall we?”

“That was different.”

“ _How_. Was that different.”

“You weren’t here.”

“And with any luck, I won’t be for much longer.”

“How _were_ your travels abroad?”

“Abroad-ish.”

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

“You really are thicker than a stone wall, Potter.”

“You missed me, right?”

“Does anyone miss a thorn in their side?”

“Oh, Malfoy, c’mon,” Potter tugged at Draco’s sleeve. “Say it. Just once. You know you missed me.” Draco decided that either he also brought out the inner teen-aged boy in Potter, or Potter was perpetually a teen-aged boy. It was too early to tell.

“No.”

“Just a little bit?” Potter nudged Draco with his elbow, seemingly impervious to all of Draco’s old defense tactics. The old Potter would have given up on him by now, calling him a heartless son of a dementor or something equally lacking in imagination. This new adult-child and his light banter? This was a version of Potter he didn’t know at all.

“No.”

“Malfoy, come on,” Potter was laughing. 

“A child. You are an actual child.”

“Say it.”

“Lay off the mead, Potter.” Draco stepped into his quarters and turned abruptly. Potter was still grinning at him like a childish idiot. Draco slammed the door in his face and leaned his back against it, groaning. “I am in hell,” he muttered. And it must have been true, because he felt impossibly warm.

-

In the morning Draco faced the greatest challenge of his entire career: a classroom of overly energetic eleven year olds. He had taught plenty of Potions courses, to be sure. He had taught at colleges around the world as a way to fulfill grants or make additional income while working on research projects or at dig sites. He had taught children before too; he hardly thought they would have hired him otherwise. But he felt far more at home doing research. His first class had barely started, and he already found himself growing irritated, his energy wearing thin. Had he really been so energetic once? So juvenile?

“Attention!” He shouted to the room. It went silent immediately. He began a basic lecture on the importance of Potions-Making and its many uses in the Wizarding World. He gave an overview of what they would be learning that year, as well as what they could expect for the remaining years at Hogwarts. He noticed Lily Luna sitting toward the center of the room, watching him with an interested smile on her face. It was almost unnerving, and he found himself looking away.

When the first years had left his room, he had an hour to make some tea and prepare for the next class. Fifth years. Very angsty fifth years. He gave them a similar opening lecture about what to expect from the year, and then assigned them the task of making a poison antidote, to confirm that everyone had successfully retained information from their previous year and also to give himself a moment of peace. 

About halfway through the task, a scuffle was developing in the back corner of the room. Draco wandered toward the noise to investigate.

“It’s your fault! You weren’t supposed to add the infused bezoar yet!” said the boy who had been sitting at the Gryffindor table that first night in the Great Hall. This was James Sirius Potter, and he was shouting at his Potions Partner. It was delightfully reminiscent.

“My fault? You set the temperature far too high!” a skeletal boy retorted.

“You’re blaming _me_ when this is clearly _your_ fault? I should have expected as much from a _Death Eater_ family.”

“What’s going on here?” Draco asked, standing tall and broadening his shoulders just a little as if he were a bear trying to intimidate an enemy. Or Professor Snape himself. Draco folded his arms over his chest, his wand clearly visible in his hand. 

“It doesn’t concern you!” James turned and spat the words at him. Draco was far taller than James was, and Draco watched with amusement as James’ eyes slowly lifted toward his. However, there was not a hint of remorse or guilt in his gaze--not even the slightest indication that James was intimidated by Draco. 

Draco blinked at him, his mouth pressing into a thin smile. “Oh, I believe it does.”

James crossed his arms defiantly.

“Well, perhaps I can get the story from you then?” Draco turned to James' partner.

“He was being careless. Turned the temperature up too high because he was too busy _flirting_ with Flora over there.”

Flora flushed a bright pink, and stared down at her desk.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Potter?” Draco asked. He couldn’t bring himself to simply say _Potter_. That was a term especially reserved for the boy’s father.

“Not to _you_.”

“Well then. Ten points from Gryffindor. And Mr. Potter,” Draco paused, looking at the slimy mess of overflowed Antidote Potion oozing over the lab table. There was a rush of noise in the hall. Class was over. “Clean that up before you leave.”

Draco walked toward the front of the room, smiling to himself. There was something strangely delightful in doling out punishment to Potters. His delight was soon squandered, however, when he turned around to discover that James had already fled the room, leaving his potions partner to clean the mess. “Stop,” Draco told the boy. “Do you know exactly where James sleeps in the Gryffindor House?”

The boy nodded and told him where.

“You are dismissed.” And with a wave of his wand, Draco transported the entire mess onto young Mr. Potter’s pillow. 

Today wasn’t turning out to be so terrible after all.

-

Draco tried to enjoy a light lunch in his office, but found he couldn’t enjoy much of anything in his office at all. Everywhere he looked had a memory, and all of those memories revolved around his godfather. He kept catching himself staring sorrowfully at the chair in the corner, where he would sometimes curl up and read during Snape’s office hours. There would be no working in that room with any sort of peace. At least in Snape’s old quarters, there wasn’t a memory everywhere he looked. He had never actually seen Snape’s quarters as a boy. So it was nicely reminiscent of him, without being overly depressing. He stood up, the decision already made.

Back in his quarters, Draco transformed the overstuffed green leather armchair into a large wooden desk that fit nicely against the wall by the fireplace. Much better. He would do most of his work in his quarters, and use the office only sparingly for student meetings. 

After lunch he faced the final class of the day: third years. As he called names for attendance, trying to familiarize himself with his last class, he found himself calling the name of Albus Severus Potter. Merlin. _Three_ Potters? Well, Potter had married a Weasley, hadn’t he? They were known for their tendency to reproduce. He really hoped that there weren’t any more. It was just his luck, anyway, having all of Potter’s hatchlings in his Potions classes. It was far more Potter-Weasels than anyone should rightfully have to encounter in a lifetime, and he had to see them all in a single day. 

As Draco observed Albus throughout class, however, he noted that this Potter-Weasel was different from the others. He didn’t have Lily’s smiling social ease, nor James’ defiance. He was sitting in the front of the class, but he kept his eyes to his desk and often shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking terribly shy and awkward. As Draco scanned down his parchment with students’ names and houses, he noted that Albus was in Slytherin House. A Potter-Weasel in _Slytherin_ ? How could this be? Oh, he would have paid _galleons_ to see the look on Potter’s face when he found out he had produced a Slytherin. He instantly gravitated toward the child. “Mr. Potter,” he said shortly after his introductory lecture, clearing his throat and intending to put this Potter-Weasel on the spot like he had the others in an excuse to shave House points away. But he probably wouldn’t shave as _many_ House points away for the one in front of him. He was in Slytherin, after all. “Can you tell me the first ingredient used in a Shrinking Solution?”

“Shrivelfig juice, sir.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, feeling genuinely surprised. A Slytherin Potter-Weasel who had an advanced knowledge of Potions _and_ knew how to respect a teacher? “Excellent. Three points for Slytherin.” Albus looked up at him then, smiling sheepishly. Draco didn’t know why, but it filled him with a strange sort of pride. 

Draco resumed addressing the class. “I will have you all turned to page 3 in your textbooks, and begin juicing shrivelfigs with your Potions partners.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Draco realized that Albus was sitting alone. He didn’t _have_ a Potions partner, and there was no one else sitting alone to be paired with. To make matters worse, Albus was subtly looking around as if to make sure that no one was laughing at him for not having a Potions partner. “Mr. Potter,” Draco said. “I will be happy to assist you once you reach steps 7 and 8, but until then I have faith that you will be quite capable of handling this on your own.” Again, Albus smiled sheepishly as Draco passed him and strolled through the aisles, making sure that everyone was following the instructions properly. When he was convinced that he wasn’t going to have another James Potter incident, he returned to Albus’ table. He watched Albus work, and noted that the boy's posture was a little more confident than it had been moments before. “Wait,” Draco said, as he watched Albus gather five hairy caterpillars into his palm and lift his hand over the potion. “The final product tends to be more potent if you add them one at a time.”

Albus nodded eagerly and followed Draco’s suggestions. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t talk back. _Delightful_. Albus Potter--he might just have to ignore the Potter part--was proving to be his favourite student thus far.

-

By the end of the week, Draco had grown used to catching glimpses of Potter-- _the_ Potter--in the Great Hall. They never seemed to actually run into each other--Draco purposely avoided him at all costs, and Potter had taken to grimacing at him for whatever reason, which suited Draco just fine. He'd hardly known what to do with the Potter he met by the dungeons, and this was much easier. They never spoke. If they did happen to pass each other in the halls they shared a silent, wary glance. That was all. It was all very reminiscent of their school days, really.

After breakfast on Friday, Headmistress Granger announced, “I would like to remind all faculty members that there is a faculty meeting at two o’clock this afternoon, in the Faculty Room.”

Draco only had a class of third years that morning, and then he had intended to work on lesson planning for the rest of the day. A faculty meeting? In the Faculty Room? That meant a large round table, where everyone had to look at each other and participate in some sort of stupid icebreaker exercise. He would actually be required to _speak_ to his colleagues. He already knew it would be horrible.

He took a late lunch and reluctantly made his way to the Faculty Room. Cliques of colleagues were standing outside, sipping pumpkin juice or tea and sharing stories of their first week. No one gave him a second glance and, if they did, they certainly didn’t invite him to join their conversations. So this is how it was going to be. Here, everyone knew his past. There was no escaping it, and they were going to treat him like rubbish because of it. He wove between one social group and another, and finally into the nearly empty Faculty Room. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley were talking quietly to themselves in a far corner. Draco had his choice of seats. He chose a chair near the door in case he needed to escape. Eventually, Potter, Weasley, and Granger took their seats across the table from him as other colleagues filtered into the room. Soon every chair in the room was filled. Every chair, that is, except for the chairs to the left and right of Draco Malfoy.

Granger asked each person to state their name, department, and what first drew them to their chosen field. Draco’s first instinct was to say something along the lines of _Why yes, what first drew me to my chosen field was the ability to punish misbehaving children,_ or _Well, I chose international Potions research because I wanted to get away from judgmental arseholes like you._ Potter said something about future Dark Lords needing to be brought to justice and young people having the ability to defend themselves or something equally predictable. Draco’s mind drifted to the time he spent in Snape’s Potions class and how much he missed his godfather.

“Professor Malfoy?” Granger was saying encouragingly, pulling Draco from his thoughts. “You’re next.”

“My name is Draco Malfoy. I’m the new Potions Master, and I--” He started to look across the table at Granger, but his eyes drifted to the person at her right side. Potter was sitting across the table, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, watching him with open, grudging curiosity. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead and he had gotten rid of his beard. He was freshly shaven and looked far cleaner than the night he had first arrived. His robes were a little unbuttoned at the top, revealing that same black t-shirt he had been wearing that first night. Draco wondered if he was wearing those same jeans, too, the ones with that perfect three-inch tear in the thigh, just perfect enough for a finger to slide through and--

Oh bugger.

 _What had he planned to say?_

It was gone. Completely gone. The entire room was staring at him.

“I--I had an excellent Potions teacher.” He was improvising now. The plan was gone. “But I think that what really drew me to potions was the fact that they are predictable. With enough research, I can learn exactly how they will behave.” _P_ _otions are far more forgiving of your mistakes than people._

That was a close call. He had _almost_ said that second half aloud. 

Draco shifted in his seat.

Everyone was staring at him.

Potter was staring at him in a softened, pitying sort of way.

He _hadn’t_ said that out loud. 

Right?

Oh bollocks, he _had_ , hadn’t he?

Damn Potter and his ugly t-shirt and his ripped trousers and his big ugly face.

The next person began speaking, and Draco’s comments were soon forgotten. Well, forgotten by everyone except Potter. Draco dared not look at him, even though he could practically feel Potter’s eyes burning into him.

After a few general announcements, the meeting was over. Before Draco could make his escape, Granger called him aside. “Professor Malfoy,” she said. “Would you be so kind as to join me for tea in my office in an hour? There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you as well.”

Draco stepped out of the Faculty Room, relieved to be free of it and hoping he wasn’t in any sort of trouble with Granger. Potter was leaning against the wall just outside the room with his arms folded over his chest, and Draco hastened past him down the hall.

“Malfoy!” Potter chased after him. Draco was certainly popular today. “I need to talk to you.” Draco noted the sternness of his voice. Potter had always utilized the word _Malfoy_ in a wide variety of ways. The night Potter had said his surname at the trapdoor to the dungeon had been playful. This, most definitely, was not. Perhaps Draco _had_ felt Potter’s eyes burning into him at the meeting. In anger, rather than pity.

Draco crossed his arms and tried to avoid Potter’s eyes. “Go on, then.”

“Can you explain to me,” Potter said, almost squirming with his obvious desire to tackle Draco to the floor, “why you transported a failed antidote potion onto my son’s pillow?”

Internally, Draco laughed. Outwardly, he frowned. “Because your son refused to follow simple instructions. He misbehaved in class. I requested that he clean his mess before he left, and he didn’t. Thus,” Draco waved his hand through the air, as if the conclusion should be obvious. 

“Yes, and once the potion reacted with the down in his pillow--goose feathers, Malfoy, like all Hogwarts pillows, you know this--the entire pillow incinerated, the bed caught fire,” (this was the part where Draco was trying very, very hard to not burst out laughing) “and the entire room became an inferno in the middle of the night before a group of sixth and seventh years were able to extinguish the fire with some water spells. One of James’ roommates had to go to the Hospital Wing.”

The internal laugh gave way to a twinge of guilt. Of course he knew that Hogwarts pillows were made of goose down. And of course he knew that there would be a very volatile reaction. But it would take at least _sixteen hours_ for the down to fully absorb a failed antidote potion before a reaction of that nature could take place. He had assumed that James Potter would have returned to his room within that span of time. And if he hadn’t, it could only mean that James Potter did not return to his room that night when he was supposed to. Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Your son was reckless. He disrespected my authority, and disrespected his Potions partner. I refuse to ignore poor behavior simply because his surname happens to be Potter.” Draco turned and kept walking.

“I’m not asking you to!” Potter called after him, jogging to keep up. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Look,” Potter said, glancing up and down the hall before grabbing a fistful of Draco’s robes and dragging him through the nearest door. Draco’s breath caught before he could stop himself. He was standing in a closet. A very dark and tiny closet. With Harry Potter. Merlin, had Hogwarts broom closets always been this small? “I _know_ , more than anyone, how James can be. He’s as overconfident as I was when I was that age, and hasn’t made a mistake big enough to question himself yet,” Potter said. “Most people _are_ all too willing to look the other way if he misbehaves, so believe it or not, I appreciate your efforts. Sometimes he can be a git, but he’s my git, and I’m sorry if he--that he--” Draco could hear Potter scratching his head in the dark. “Well you may be in for a difficult year. I’m afraid he wasn’t very fond of you, even before you became the Potions Master--”

“What did you tell him about me?”

“--but you’re still a Hogwarts _professor_ now. Safety for all students should be your main concern. Apparating a failed potion onto a student’s— _any_ student’s—pillow is dangerous, and could have--”

“What did you tell him, Potter?” Draco was tempted to cast a silent Lumos, just so he could read Potter’s face.

“Nothing! I didn’t _tell_ him anything. But James may have...” Potter sighed. “He may have discovered a few things about you on his own. He’s very protective of me, and he--”

“What. _Exactly._ Did he discover?”

“He…” Potter was scratching his head again in the dark. “He’s always been fascinated by stories of the war, and he has this thing about Death Eaters, and… when he was old enough to start pursuing the stories on his own, he started reading old newspapers, and between that and, well just _gossip,_ really, because everyone knows about the Malfoys, he learned that _you_ were a Death Eater, and…”

“He hates me.” Draco finished for him. “Fine. That’s just one more Potter who hates me. Well, he’ll have to fall in line. There’s already at least ten thousand individuals eagerly awaiting my demise. I’m not terribly concerned that your fifteen-year-old has added himself to the list.” Draco reached for the door handle. He was ending this conversation. He was getting out of this closet before any rumours could spread. Plus, he had to prepare for tea with Granger. _Merlin_. He never thought he would so greatly prefer Granger’s presence to Potter’s. To be eager to see her, even. Well, then again, look who he had to deal with _now._

Potter’s hand wrapped around Draco's wrist over his robes, holding him in place. Quietly, so quietly that Draco wasn’t entirely sure Potter had said anything at all, Potter whispered, “I don’t hate you, if that’s what you think.”

Draco froze. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be touched, even if it _was_ through several layers of fabric. And Potter’s touch was warm and firm and _wonderful_ against him. A need surged through him as desperate as hunger.

Potter just kept right on going. “I disliked you, yes, because you were a complete arse—” Draco began to push open the closet door. “but that was years ago, and I’m--” Potter pulled him back, groaning in frustration, “What I _mean_ is, I’m _trying_ to move past it, if you’ll _let_ me, and you are making it nearly impossible.” Potter heaved a sigh. “But I’ve never hated you, Draco.”

Potter’s words were all softness and honesty, and Draco felt himself shiver as Potter said his first name. _Potter is married with children and straight as an arrow._ So why the hell did Draco still want to reach for Potter’s hands in the dark? Why the hell did Draco want to reach out, and _hold_ him, and be held? This was _Potter_ , for fuck’s sake. Yes. _Married with children and straight as an arrow._ _Right._ That seemed to settle it. Until.

“Never,” Potter repeated, his voice even softer as his hand tightened around Draco’s wrist, sending something warm and unpleasant tingling up his spine.

Draco needed air. Immediately. “Well, that’s nice, Potter, but I’ve despised you my entire life.” Because what could this sickly feeling in his gut possibly be, if not hatred? He knew exactly what else it could be, and he refused (refused!) to consider it. He wrenched his wrist free of Potter’s grip and forced the closet door open. A student walking by the door shrieked and stared at him in alarm. Wonderful. That was just what he needed. Students gossiping about Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, jumping out of closets at unsuspecting first-years. At least that was better than--no, no, _no_. Potter, the bloody idiot, was stepping out of the closet right behind him, looking furious. The student blinked in surprise, and then practically ran down the hall, clutching her books to her chest. Soon the entire school would be gossiping about Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, hiding in closets with Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World. 

“That’s just brilliant, Potter,” Draco said, gesturing toward the fleeing student and glaring. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Of course not, you complete and utter--” Draco roared in frustration, not even bothering to look at Potter again as he marched toward his quarters to wash up for tea.

-

He found Granger sitting at a small tea table covered with white lace in the far back corner of her office. “Professor Malfoy,” she said as he walked in. “How do you like your tea?”

“Milk, please.” Draco’s frustration about the closet incident melted as he saw a full, proper wizard tea spread out before him. There were fancy teacups and a silver milk pitcher and everything. It reminded him of his mother’s afternoon tea. 

Granger poured a splash of milk into his tea as he seated himself across from her.

“Well then,” she said, sliding Draco’s tea toward him and folding her hands around her teacup. Draco tensed, waiting for her to begin lecturing him about why we don’t apparate failed potions onto students’ pillows, but was pleasantly surprised when she simply said, “Tell me about Siberia.”

And Draco did. He told Granger all about Siberia. He told her about the research facility in the mountains, about the digsite near Lake Baikal, about their significant discovery of ancient potions ingredients. He was genuinely surprised by how easy she was to talk to. She listened openly, and asked questions that encouraged him to talk further. Talking with Granger brought a surprising level of relief. He knew, now, that this was as good a time as any. It was better to have Granger in on his plan, more or less, than to have Potter discover him snooping around the castle again.

“I suppose this all leads me,” Draco began, “to my question for you.”

“Oh?” Granger took a sip of tea and reached for a biscuit.

“During my time in Siberia--and at several other dig sites, in fact--I found reference to an ancient potion that I would like to learn more about. My studies finally pointed me toward ancient Egyptian ruins, but the ruins had already been explored by wizard and archaeologist Havartus Carter. Carter, as it turns out, donated most of his findings to two locations. I believe the potion, as well as additional texts about it, are now stored here at Hogwarts somewhere. I was hoping to obtain your permission to search the grounds for them.”

“What's the potion?”

Draco sighed and reluctantly decided that it would be best to tell her the truth. “The Fountain of Youth. To be honest, the sources are very unclear about its exact effects, but it could be a significant discovery. It could be a breakthrough in Healing and historical research.”

Granger was nodding slowly, clearly thinking this through. “It could be a significant discovery, yes. However, since you do not know its exact effects, I do have some concerns. There is too much that we don’t know. We do not know exactly what this potion might do. I agree that this may have the power to be revolutionary, but in the wrong hands it could also be a disaster. Could you imagine a world in which Voldemort had access to a Fountain of Youth, on top of everything else?” Granger took another sip of her tea. And another. “However, I think this is important work.” Granger lifted her teacup to her lips, but set it back down again. “Professor Malfoy, if I give you unrestricted access to donation records and the freedom to explore Hogwarts grounds for this Fountain of Youth, can I trust you to provide me with regular updates about your findings?” 

“Absolutely,” Draco nodded. It had been so easy. Far easier than he had expected it to be, given that this was Granger. Given what he was asking for. Given that he wouldn’t have to sneak around as he had originally expected. All things considered, her terms were quite reasonable.

“Good. One last thing. I apologize for earlier this week--I was told that Harry would be arriving later than he did. I did not intentionally deceive you. Are you...have things been going alright?”

“Fine.” _Except for turning Potter’s eldest child’s pillow into a bomb, and getting caught walking out of a tiny dark closet with Potter close behind._ “There's nothing to be overly concerned about. Potter and I are capable of being professional. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Granger sipped her tea. “Things have been so difficult for Harry with Ginny gone, you know? He’s been doing so much better recently, and I just...”

 _Ah ha!_ So that's why there had been no sign of the Weaslette. She was traveling. Granger may be the headmistress of Hogwarts, but she obviously still cared deeply for Potter as a friend. It was enviable. “There’s no need to concern yourself. Potter and I will be fine. You have bigger things to worry about. Like my request for the donation records.”

Granger’s mouth curved into a smile around her teacup. “Go to the library and tell Ms. Lingenhopper your name. By the time you get there, I will make sure you have been authorized to view everything we have on file.”

“Thank you, Granger,” Draco smiled, the familiar name flowing off of his tongue with a far greater deal of appreciation than ever before. “Headmistress,” he corrected.

“Hermione is fine,” she said. “Believe it or not, people _do_ have first names.”

“ _What_? Preposterous.” Draco teased as Granger pursed her lips. “I can’t make any promises…” he swallowed, “Hermione.” The word felt strange and foreign on his tongue. “Yes, I do think I’ll stick with Granger, if you don’t mind.” He smiled, threw back the rest of his tea and made his way toward the library.


	3. Chapter 3

It took nearly two weeks to discover that the donations lists in the library were more or less useless. Carter’s donations had been given in bulk, and no one had bothered to sit down and make any record of the items donated or where each item ended up. Draco did, however, find a lead when scanning through potions donations. Small batches of potions donations were frequently listed as being taken to the “Potions Storage Library.” Apparently, somewhere in the dungeons was a large storage room that contained all of the potions stored by Hogwarts. This meant, of course, that in addition to the decent potions donations, he would probably have to filter through unsolicited donations and student projects. In theory, the room should be filled with preservation charms so he wouldn’t need to worry about spoilage. At least he hoped so, because some of the potions listed were well over 100 years old.

Once most of his students had come around to either fearing him or respecting his authority, his classes went fairly smoothly. The Potter-Weasels somehow managed to bring him the most fun. He greatly enjoyed finding excuses to trim points from Gryffindor on James’ behalf, or add points to Slytherin on account of Albus’ astounding potions knowledge. Lily was a more neutral party; he didn’t give her points, but he didn’t take them away either.

Potter himself had been completely ignoring him since the incident in the closet, and luckily no gossip had spread around the school. If they passed each other in the halls, Potter didn’t even make the effort to give him a wary glance anymore. He just kept walking, refusing to even acknowledge Draco’s presence. In their faculty meeting, Potter had ignored him until they were obligated to team up together to brainstorm new classroom layouts for the following term. Potter had conversed with him minimally, only for the purpose of the exercise, and then went back to completely ignoring him. Draco found that he didn’t like it at all. He far preferred the first couple of weeks, during which Potter had at least bothered to engage in playful banter or lecture him. Now it was as if Draco didn’t exist. Potter was determined to give him the silent treatment. Like a child. No, this was far worse than when they were children. Draco didn’t like it at all.

After a Friday class in late September, Draco decided it was time to start searching for the Potions Storage Library. He went back to the dungeon trapdoor and opened it without any interference from a particular Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. When he reached the bottom of the narrow stone steps, he cast a Lumos spell, but the darkness around him was so intense that it hardly did any good. “Lox!” Draco cast into the room, and five small balls of white light, each blazing like an afternoon sun, flew from the tip of his wand toward the ceiling, illuminating the entire room. This spell would have been very convenient when he had last explored the dungeons as a boy, he thought. Now, this spell was one of his staples. He didn’t know how he could have explored any tombs without it. 

Draco looked around the wet, dark stone, trying to re-acquaint himself. As a Slytherin he was no stranger to Hogwarts dungeons, but these were another beast entirely. He had some memory of these deep dungeons from his searches in sixth year, but he was still impressed with how large this first room was. And how damp. Attached to the main room were at least six doors and three corridors. Draco strained to remember the layout of the dungeons. He knew that if he traveled south he would end up in mazes, or dead ends, or drippy caverns beneath the lake. If he traveled west he would surely encounter the old catacombs. That left north and east as his most likely options. He began with north, walking down seemingly endless corridors and poking his head into room after room, sometimes only to discover that they weren’t rooms at all but hallways that led elsewhere. Draco felt like he had barely made any progress after four hours of exploration, and decided that, as he progressed with this project, he needed to bring in more tricks from the archaeological trade. He needed exploration spells--things that would map out the dungeons as he went, jot down notes about each room as he said them aloud. That way, he could at least explore the dungeons more systematically; he would waste less of his time covering old ground.

-

As Halloween approached, the students were noticeably gleeful, which meant even more botched potions than usual. Draco found himself detracting points from Houses left and right. ...Except for Slytherin, of course. Slytherin students were always the height of academic excellence. And Lily Luna. She was always smiling brightly, and saying, “Yes Professor Malfoy,” and “No, Professor Malfoy,” and he found that he hadn’t the heart to detract points from her even when she spilled her cauldron while attempting a Cure for Boils. This, of course, turned out to be a mistake, because when she smilingly asked for help on her next potion, two of her Gryffindor friends placed a croaking pinecone on Draco’s chair. She was sneaky. Smiley and sneaky and just as adventurously mischievous as every Gryffindor in existence. ...Except worse, because she hid perfectly under the guise of innocence until it was too late. And even then, he hadn’t detracted any points, because her cunning was so...well, _Slytherin_ , that he was actually impressed.

Draco sat in the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast wearing fine velvet black robes. Weasley and Granger hadn’t arrived yet, but Draco didn’t mind their absences. With Potter not speaking to him, it offered a pleasant sort of quiet. Or at least it did, until James Potter ran into the hall like the building was on fire. James was breathing heavily, as if he had just ran across half of the grounds. Potter was on his feet within seconds. Draco just kicked back and took another sip of pumpkin juice. 

Then James spoke.

“Dark Mark!” James shouted. “Over the Forbidden Forest!” Draco sat upright, his blood running cold. He had managed to avoid seeing a Dark Mark, with the exception of his forearm of course, since the war. He had hoped it would stay that way. A surge of panic gripped him before he took a breath and tried to regain control of himself. The Dark Mark meant nothing. The Dark Lord was dead. Potter had killed him. He was dead.

The Great Hall erupted in gasps and nervous whispers. Potter was already halfway across the room, and Draco was scrambling to catch up with him. 

“Where?” Potter asked James. “Show me.”

As soon as they were outside, it was evident that James hadn’t needed to show them much of anything. In the dark, the cobblestones of the keep were flickering beneath a sickly green light. Once they reached the drawbridge, the Mark could be clearly seen, bright and gigantic, over the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Potter stepped forward, but James was clinging to his arm.

“Dad, I don’t want you to--”

“This is my _job_ , remember?”

“Not to worry, Mr. Potter, I’m sure your father will have no hesitation using me as a human shield if the need arises.”

“ _He’s_ going?” James pulled back from Potter. “ _Hell no._ I’m coming with you.”

“Language. And you most certainly are not.”

“But Dad, what if he tries to--” James gave Draco a fearful, suspicious look.

Potter pulled his son into an embrace. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I need you to go find Aunt Hermione and tell her what’s happened, alright? If there’s any sign of trouble here, send up a flare with your wand. You remember how to do that?”

James nodded reluctantly.

“Good.” Potter kissed James’ forehead. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

After they had crossed the moat and were well outside of hearing range from anyone near the castle, Potter muttered, “I can handle this myself, Malfoy.”

“Like hell you can, Potter. You don’t know what you’re walking into. There could be ten Death Eaters out there for all we know, and we’re already as good as dead.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“How very Potter of you.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You actually have someone in your midst who has a great deal of knowledge about Death Eater culture and dark magic, and you would still rather march alone into what is most assuredly a trap. All kneel before Saint Potter.” They were nearing the edge of the forest and the Mark was high and bright in the air above them.

“I was Head Auror for--” Potter cut himself off. “Wait, you actually think that I--” But Potter never had a chance to finish, because the green light of the Dark Mark flickered out, and they were surrounded by darkness. The only light was from the moon, which kept fading in and out behind thick grey clouds.

“Come on,” Draco said, breaking into a sprint toward the edge of the woods. Even after they had crossed into the forest, there was silence. Draco and Potter both went completely still, listening. Then there was a slight rustling, and they were both running forward into the dark, chasing the noise, whatever it was, with their wands tightly in their hands. They reached a small clearing. Draco was halfway across the clearing when he saw that they were chasing a field mouse. Before they could change course, the ground gave way, and they were both falling, falling, falling into the dark earth. 

Draco felt his wand flinging from his hand as he reflexively reached out around himself, trying to grasp anything to prevent his fall. Then he hit earth and for one terrifying moment he couldn’t breathe while all of the air was knocked out of his lungs. As soon as his lungs began working again, he gasped and groaned, his knees aching, his palms scratched. Potter landed somewhere behind him, and Draco instantly looked over his shoulder to make sure that he was unharmed. Potter sputtered and gasped as Draco looked around them. They were standing in a deep, square dirt pit, empty but nearly ten feet wide and at least fifteen feet tall. 

“A fucking trap. Didn’t I tell you so, Potter?” Draco said, reaching for his wand. But it was no longer on him. It had flung away in the fall, and as he frantically began searching the dirt floor, he realized that it was not in the pit with him.

“No, I don’t think so. I think...I think this is one of Hagrid’s old holding pens for magical creatures. I don’t know if we can--where’s my wand?” They looked up and saw the distant silhouette of a wand against a glimpse of moonlight, teetering high, on the edge of the dirt wall. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and they were plunged back into darkness. Potter reached up, clearly trying to cast a silent, wandless Accio, but the wand didn’t budge. He tried again, this time vocalizing the spell, but the wand still didn’t move. Potter kicked the side of the wall. “Urgh! This must be a pen that limits magic.”

“Oh good! I can’t wait until we are discovered and murdered like fish in a barrel.”

“If this is Hagrid’s work, it’s likely warded and covered in disillusionment spells. Unless someone happens to fall in too, I don’t think they’ll even realize we’re here.”

“Oh, even better! So _no one_ can find us.”

“I wonder if we can...come here.” Draco crossed the pit toward Potter, who was getting on his hands and knees in the dirt. “Mount me.”

Draco’s stomach flipped. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, for...just...stand on my back. See if you can reach the edge.”

Draco did, making a determined effort to step onto Potter’s back as roughly as possible. He was rewarded when he heard Potter grunting beneath his shoes. He reached up, but still wasn’t anywhere close to reaching the edge. He dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to climb up, but the dirt eroded beneath his hands and crumbled down onto the back of Potter’s head. He aimed a little more dirt onto Potter’s head for good measure. “No use, Potter,” he said, jumping down.

“Here, try.” Draco got on one knee and tapped it. Potter stepped on his thigh, the rubber bottoms of his trainers cold through Draco's trousers. Draco was _not_ wearing his work trousers, and usually he would protest to anything ruining perfectly good dress trousers, but this was a special case.

“Now what?”

Draco wove his fingers together and flipped his palms upward at his knee. “Step.”

Potter pressed a foot into his palms and, trying to sustain balance and Potter’s weight, Draco grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. Potter went soaring upward until his fingers dug into the wall only two feet below the edge, but then they lost balance and both were toppling backward into the dirt. 

The next thing Draco knew, he was on his back with his face pressed tightly against Potter’s heaving chest. He couldn’t stop himself. With his nose still against the fabric of Potter’s robes, he inhaled. A pleasant scent filled his nostrils, sweet as treacle tart and faintly sharp with sweat. He found himself wanting to wrap his arms around Potter and linger there, listening to Potter breathe. It felt so _satisfying_ , all of a sudden. To feel so warm. To feel so protected, so cocooned by another person. By Potter, in particular. The thought terrified him. He pushed Potter off and scrambled out from underneath of him as if he were made of poison. “Trapped in a muddy pit with Harry Potter,” he said sourly, crawling back on his hands and knees and pushing himself back to his feet. “Just what I’ve always wanted.” 

“Why do you have to be such a callous...pompous... _wanker_ all the time?” Potter asked, rolling onto his back.

“Why do you have to be such a brainless egotistical peacock?”

“Oh, sod off.” Potter shook his head and rolled onto his feet. “You know what? When you came back I thought…” Potter shook his head. “I don’t know why I thought things might have changed. You know, I’ve tried, and I’ve tried, and I’ve tried. And after everything--after everything we’ve gone through, you still hate me.”

“Of course I hate you! The war’s over for you, while I’m still stuck in--”

“The war is _not_ over for me! The war will _never_ be over for me! What the bloody hell do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

“But it’s so _easy_ for you, isn’t it? Always has been. The world adores you.”

“Easy?!” Potter clenched his fist and flailed. As if unable to decide if he wanted to punch Draco in the face or shove him in the chest or shoulder, Potter’s fist landed in between, just beneath Draco’s left collarbone. _Hard_. “I’ve lost _everyone_!”

Draco stumbled backward until the backs of his legs collided with the dirt wall. Draco leaned over his knees, balling the fabric of his shirt into a fist above the pulsing pain from Potter's fist. “Oh and I haven’t?” He glared at Potter but remained standing, his free hand pressed to one knee. “You have a _family_ , Potter. You have Granger and the Weasleys and children and the entire world falling at your feet. You haven’t even _begun_ to understand what loneliness means.” Draco looked at the ground again, rubbing his sore chest. “You want to know what happened to me? After the war, my family was completely ostracized. No invitations, no social ties, no way to start a new life. We were completely cut off. Unable to distract themselves or recover from the horrors of the war, my parents’ health suffered until I made them leave the country. Any remaining friends I had who _weren’t_ in prison, I lost when I left the country to rebuild the broken Malfoy name. Not that it did any good. My parents were barely accepted in France, and now they’re both _dead_ , and anyone I let into my life abandons me as soon as they find out about my Mark.” Draco looked Potter straight in the eye, breathless and shaking. “I have no one. _No one_!”

A slow and steady dripping broke the silence that followed. The rain had arrived, leaving dark stains in the dirt. One plump drop spattered against Draco’s temple before the rain fully began pelting against him. Draco leaned back against the dirt wall, breathing heavily. He had never said anything like that aloud to anyone before. Yet, overcome with anger, he had somehow been able to tell _Potter_ of all people. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to crawl out of this stupid hole, find his wand, go walk through the woods in the rain, and disappear. He wanted to go anywhere. _Anywhere_. Even that awful dig in Wyoming, where they had accidentally unearthed a hatch of man-eating cockroaches, was still preferable to here. He didn’t care about the Fountain of Youth. He just wanted to go… he swallowed the tightness in his throat. Home? Where was home? He didn’t even have a home to go _to_ anymore. Malfoy Manor had been sitting empty since his parents left it over a decade ago. Once upon a time he would Apparate to his mother for tea on the weekend, back when she was still alive, but now? For years, home had simply meant a place where no one knew his name. 

“You have me,” Potter said quietly, after they were both soaked through with rain. 

Draco gave a cold laugh before he could stop himself. “That’s funny, Potter. Hilarious.”

“Fine. Laugh. That’s what you always do in the face of sincerity, isn’t it? Turn cynical. Make it into a joke. Avoid it altogether.” Potter bristled and backed against the opposite side of the pit. He leaned against the wall, digging his fingers into the dirt as if it could restrain him from marching forward and punching Draco into the ground.

“That depends on the sincerity. Look at you. You’re talking as if we’re best mates, yet it’s clear you want to beat me to a bloody pulp. Potter, you know as well as I do that we barely tolerate each other.”

“When have we ever actually _tried_? When have _you_?” Potter yelled and stepped forward, tense again, and then forced himself back against the wall, loosening his fists. “I know we tend to bring out the worst in each other, but I just meant…” he sighed, but he didn’t finish. Instead, he began pacing along an invisible line in the middle of the pit. There was silence again, as the rain pattered against them and the tree canopies overhead. “You know. With so many people in my life dead, and Ron and Hermione frequently busy or away, I’ve realized,” Potter sniffed and glanced at Draco. Then at the sky. Then he stared at the dirt wall. His voice was tight. “This is going to sound like the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.” Potter held his breath and looked at the sky again, blinking as raindrops caught on his eyelashes. “I think you might be the next closest thing I have to a friend.” Potter released a sad, choked laugh. “Can you imagine?” He shook his head and jammed his hands into his pockets, turning to face the far wall. “You. A friend. In what universe?” He turned around and slid his back against the dirt wall until he was sitting in the mud. “But besides a handful of people I rarely get to see anymore, you’re all I have left. You're the last person who won’t blow smoke up my arse. The last person who sees _me_ and not some shadow of a deed I did once.” Potter placed his elbows on his knees, and let his forehead fall into his palms. “Yet you don’t even want to _try_. You’d rather be lonely and miserable.”

Draco opened his mouth, fully ready to say something like: _That’s very astute of you, Potter. Perhaps you’re not as brainless as I thought._ Instead, he closed his mouth and remained silent. Maybe he _did_ always try to avoid Potter’s sincerity or turn it into something cruel or laughable. Sitting alone in the mud in the rain and shivering with cold, Potter looked painfully pathetic. After a few moments, Draco stood up, walked across the pit, and sat next to Potter in the mud, folding his arms around his knees. They were both silent, trying not to shiver with cold as the rain fell around them. 

Fuck all, maybe Potter was right. Maybe, in some bizarre twist of fate, after a lifetime of contempt and rivalry between them, Potter was now the last person he had left in the entire world. The last person who wouldn’t abandon him for his Mark, because he already _knew_ about it and seemed ready to accept him anyway. He was the only person who was _here_ and willing to be a part of his life. As allies went, Harry Potter wasn’t so bad. Hadn’t he wanted Potter as an ally all those years ago, when he was just an eleven year old boy hoping the Boy Who Lived would take his hand on a train? Draco took a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Draco slowly lifted his hand across the gap between them. Raindrops fell into his open palm as Potter stared at it dumbfoundedly. “It’s called a handshake, Potter.”

“But... _why_?”

“To try to be…” _Merlin,_ why was this so difficult? “Not enemies?”

Potter just shook his head as if Draco were a complete idiot. 

“You may have… a point. About us. That I hadn’t previously considered. I’m willing to try...to make an _attempt_ \--no promises, Potter--to… despise you less?”

Before either of them could say anything more, there was a light _clink_ to Draco’s left. Potter’s wand had washed into the pit. Draco leaned toward his left to pick it up, and felt a familiar, almost-forgotten sensation spreading through his hand. He was hit with a wave of nostalgia. The fact of the matter was: it wasn’t Potter’s wand at all. He ran his fingers along the familiar curves of smooth hawthorn. “Is this _my_ wand?” he asked a little more accusingly than he meant to, after just promising to be friendlier. 

“What?” Potter blinked, and then snatched the wand out of Draco’s hands. “Oh. Right. I mean I guess it is, in a way.”

“In a way nothing, Potter. That’s my wand.”

Potter looked pained, and then slowly held the wand back out to Draco. “I mean. I guess you can have it back. If you want. I’ve just...right. I mean it _is_ yours, isn’t it?”

“You’re a little late, Potter. I was matched with tamboti and dragon heartstring on a dig in South Africa ages ago. I don’t rightly need two wands, do I?”

Potter looked relieved, and clutched the wand tightly in his palm.

“But...you actually use it? Don’t you own the bloody _Elder Wand_? Why wouldn’t you use _that_?”

“Heh. The first thing I did after the war was destroy it. Er. After repairing my own wand, of course.”

“What a waste.”

“Not when everyone is trying to kill you or disarm you so they can get their hands on the most powerful wand in the world.”

“Fine, but then why not use _your_ wand. The one that chose you? The one that actually works best with your magic?”

“Er.” He looked down at Draco's old hawthorn wand and fidgeted with it, rolling it in his hands. Finally he sighed. “I guess yours felt... lucky? At first? I mean if you think about it, it had an even more important role in all of this than the Elder Wand did. If you hadn’t disarmed Dumbledore with it, and if I wouldn’t have taken it from you at the Manor, the Elder Wand wouldn’t be mine at all, and then where would we be? Voldemort would still be alive and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Probably because we’d be dead.” Potter rolled the wand flat out against his palms and then clutched it back in his fists with a familiarity that almost made Draco jealous of it. “It seemed wrong to keep it tucked away on a shelf somewhere until I could give it back to you.”

“I think you’re still missing the point about magical strength here, Potter.”

“Right. That part’s a little harder to explain.” Was Potter _blushing_? It was impossible to be sure in the dark. “At first I...I was holding onto it for you. For safe-keeping. So that I could return it and thank you properly whenever I saw you after the trials. But then you left. And I just...” Potter shrugged. “I kept using it. I guess I liked being reminded of...you know,” he swallowed. “Everybody. Who helped in the war.” Potter smiled at the wand as though it were an actual living being. “It took awhile, but our magic finally clicked, and when it did we were _brilliant_ together.” Draco refused to be jealous of a _wand_. Absolutely refused. “I guess I... I thought that if your wand was any indication, that maybe you and I...if you ever came back, that maybe we...” Potter’s eyes went somewhere else for a moment, clenching the wand more tightly in his hands. Draco felt the rain practically sizzling against his cheeks as he thought about Potter wanting the two of them to be as _brilliant together_ as Potter and his wand, whatever that was supposed to mean. “I tried to go back to my first wand after a while, but by then it just felt _wrong_. Everything felt wrong, except you.” Potter jerked back, apparently realizing what he just said. “Yours! Your wand I mean!” Potter was clenching his wand like it was a life raft. His face was practically glowing red in the dark.

Draco swallowed, his throat suddenly unbearably tight. “So you’ve been carrying my wand around all this time while I, on the other hand, haven’t picked up a single British newspaper for the sole purpose of avoiding your face.” He chuckled. It was laughable, really. And it was also...something that sent a pool of nervous heat sizzling through him. He took a deep, stabilizing breath of the cold night air, letting the rain chill him to his bones. A nice, good, cold rain. 

Merlin.

Potter’s ramblings were making him think things he should _not_ be thinking. Feel things he should _not_ be feeling. Because this was still _Potter_. _Married with children and straight as an arrow_. _Married with children and straight as an arrow_.

More breaths. 

Deep, stabilizing breaths of that cold night air. Bloody hell. He was smiling. His face was smiling of its own accord. Potter had merely waved a few nice, mildly suggestive words around and Draco’s face was flattered enough to start smiling without his permission. Draco sighed and kicked at a drowning stone by his foot. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

“What?”

“You said you wanted to thank me. For what? You saved my life—you saved me from Fiendfyre, you saved me from Voldemort, you saved my family from Azkaban. I should be thanking _you_. I just...I’ve never…I don’t know how.” Merlin, now _he_ was the stammering idiot. “Do you want a new house elf or a self-replenishing fruit basket or something?”

Potter raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a perfectly customary way to express gratitude, alright? It just always felt...inadequate.”

“Words are a good start.”

“But words are just words, aren’t they? They’re not... _enough_.”

“Says the man who uses them like weapons.”

“Well, they have their uses, but you know what I mean.”

“Thank _you._ For what you did at the Manor.”

“What? For what?”

“For _what_?" Harry mock-laughed. "You knew exactly who we were when they captured us."

"Oh, _that_?"

"You protected us. You saved my life.”

“Only so you could save _mine_ three times over. It was completely self-serving, I assure you. You didn’t have the bastard living in your _house_. If I had to endure one more Crucio, or mop up one more snake-digested Muggle, oh and that wasn’t even the worst of it—the man smelled like a _sewer._ Was _one_ bath so much to ask? _One_? If he could have just—what?”

Potter was gaping at him. “He tortured you. Fuck. Of course he did. Malfoy, if I could go back and kill him twice, I—”

“Potter. Really.”

“ _No,_ it’s...why didn’t you mention that at the trials? God, if I’d known, I—” Potter dug his hands into the mud at his sides, clenching dripping soil in his fists.

Draco watched Potter in disbelief, now feeling even _more_ flattered than he had been only a moment ago. Potter actually cared? About _him_? To the point of physical distress? And then he found himself disliking the fact that Potter was in distress. Draco found himself wanting to lean over, and pull him back down to the earth, and cradle himself back against Potter’s chest and...No. No that wasn’t right at all. He just wished he had brought a calming drought. That was a far more reasonable thought to have. “He _did_ smell though.”

Potter laughed. It was a tight, breathy, almost angry sound, but it was an improvement. “He did, didn’t he? I’m glad he wasn’t the one to carry me back to Hogwarts after he killed me, or I think I might’ve—”

“What the fuck!” Draco felt a possessive fury boiling in him; it was so unexpected that, had he been standing, he might have fallen over. He didn’t know he was even capable of feeling such a thing. For Potter, no less.

“Oh. Shit! Right. I forgot you didn’t know. Not very many people do.”

“He actually killed you?” Mother had always assumed that the killing curse had failed when she found Potter alive. He was the Boy Who Lived, after all.

“Only for a few minutes.”

“Only for a...?” Draco’s stomach recoiled. A world without Potter, even for a few minutes, that was...that was unthinkable. “Merlin, Potter, and here you’re whinging over a couple of Crucios. That evil fucking bastard.”

“Yeah. Well. We got him, didn’t we?” _We_. Draco had never thought of it like that before, but he supposed he _had_ been an integral part of it. He rather liked it, the way Potter so easily said _we_. As if this was a thought Potter had all the time: Malfoy and Potter saving the world. _W_ _e_. They stared at each other for a few moments. Draco felt as though something in him had lifted. He felt strangely light. He watched the rain dripping down Potter’s face in the dark, noting the way it had slicked his hair down tightly over his forehead. His spectacles were covered in raindrops, and they looked a little foggy with the cold. Potter shivered, as if he had just caught a chill. Then he cleared his throat and stood up, waving his wand around the pit, testing a few spells, but nothing appeared to work.

“I wonder,” Draco said, getting to his feet and extending a hand. “May I?” Potter didn’t even hesitate before handing over his wand, and Draco let the heat of it thrum in his cold hand for a moment. “I’ve found that sometimes if a spell is forgotten and ancient enough it can go undetected by modern wards.” Draco cast an ancient ladder conjuring spell he had discovered on one of his early digs that had saved him in many an exploratory situation thereafter. “They also have a tendency to throw modern wizards into confusion. It’s something I’ve been studying in my spare time.”

“Oh, you mean in _addition_ to your potions mastery and your endless list of publications?”

“I believe we’ve established that I don’t have many friends, Potter. I need _something_ to fill the time.” Draco finished the spell and a rope ladder unfurled itself down one of the dirt walls.

“Brilliant!” Potter walked toward it, testing its strength. 

“Did you expect anything less?” Draco stepped toward the ladder behind him. 

Potter turned to smile, and even in the dark Draco could see the relief on his face. Draco moved to return his wand to Potter, because Potter and his wand were supposedly _brilliant together_ , and their fingers met on the handle. A new tingling heat, one that had nothing to do with the magic of his wand, surged up Draco’s arm. Potter didn’t pull away. And neither did he. It was practically a handshake.

“Do you think it’s possible then?” Potter breathed, as if afraid to even pose the question. “A new start? Maybe not as friends, but at least as...not enemies?”

This was the Boy Who Lived Twice. Anything was possible. “I don’t know, Potter; let’s not make any promises.” 

But their hands were still touching as they clutched the wand, and they were both smiling hopefully at each other. And that was something.


	4. Chapter 4

That week, the school was buzzing with gossip. Where had the Mark come from? Who had cast it? Was someone trying to infiltrate Hogwarts? Was someone trying to kill Harry Potter? Or, in Draco's secret thoughts, was someone else after The Fountain of Youth? They never caught any Death Eaters and they still hadn’t found any answers, but Potter and Granger went back over the grounds, casting a series of strong and complicated protective wards. Draco had offered suggestions, reviewing the spells the Death Eaters were most likely to cast in their attempt to break into the wards, if that had been their intent at all. Potter began patrolling the grounds almost nightly, and Draco often found himself going for walks around the battlements at the same time. To think. Just to think. It had nothing to do with watching Potter from the battlements as he walked the grounds alone. It had nothing to do with a newfound desire to protect him from potential dark wizards who might hurl themselves out of the shadows and try to kill him. Again.

When Draco wasn’t on the battlements, he continued exploring the dungeons with the assistance of spells and maps. 

He went to faculty meeting after faculty meeting, and tried not to smile _too_ much at Potter while he sat across the table from him. He didn’t know what had happened, but something had shifted between them when they had been down in that stupid muddy pit, and Draco wasn’t sure he liked it at all. He found himself studying Potter during faculty meetings, newly fascinated by the way he gripped his quill and scrawled words along the parchment. The way the dark ink stained his skin, rushing into the gullies of his fingerprints. The way his nailbeds met the backs of his fingers. The way his fingers curved, strong and square yet surprisingly elegant, around the base of his quill. Potter stopped writing. Draco glanced up, realizing Potter was watching him. Draco looked away, his ears going a little red, and didn’t look back.

-

Draco skipped lunch one Friday afternoon to brew an ancient potion that was supposed to give him a little luck but was far easier to make than Felix Felicis. His hope was that it would make his exploration of the dungeon move along a little faster. He was perfectly content until the youngest Potter-Weasel wandered into his classroom.

“Class is over,” he said.

“It’s my free period.”

“Spend it elsewhere.”

Lily simply hopped onto a stool across the table from him, pressed her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “What are you making?”

“A potion.”

“It looks pretty,” she said, admiring its transparent lavender colour.

She was silent for a long while, watching as he stirred and added and read. Then, Draco nearly dumped the entire cauldron over when she said: “You like boys.” It was not a question. He just stared up at her, eyes wide. Before he could even begin to explain how inappropriate the conversation was or ask how she even _knew_ , she just kept right on going. “And I need your advice, because one of my friends thinks he might like boys too, and he--” Draco was only half listening to her because he was still a bit in shock, and also didn’t want the entire classroom to be imbibed with good luck if he didn’t finish his potion correctly. Ultimately, he cut her off and suggested her friend go talk to a counselor and would she _please_ let him finish this potion. She scampered off, and he was...oh, he would be having some words with Potter after the faculty meeting today.

-

“Potter!” Draco snapped as he marched down the hall after the meeting had ended. Potter spun around, looking at him curiously. “We need to talk.” Draco clenched Potter’s robes in _his_ hands this time, and pulled them back into that tiny, dark broom closet. “Do you have any idea what your female hatchling said to me today? She strongly implied, or may as well have said...”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t refer to my children as hatchlings, Malfoy.”

“...I’m gay.”

Draco could _hear_ Potter blinking at him in the dark. “Of course you are.”

“I _beg_ your pardon? I can count on one hand the number of people who are privy to that fact, and you are not one of them. You have no right to make implications--”

“Yeah, but... _everyone_ knows, Malfoy. I mean I’d always _wondered_ , lots of our classmates had, but that article confirmed it. I lost a bit of a bet with Ron over it, actually. How long ago was that now? Merlin, it...”

“ _What_ article?”

“...sold like Lucky Frogs, really, and I was just happy to not make the front page for once. You do your best to _try_ to shelter your children from these things, but that article was just unstoppable. It--”

“ _What_ article, Potter?”

“Oh, you know. The one. ‘My Night with a Death Eater’ or some nonsense.” 

Draco heard himself take a breath as he felt his chest tighten. He stumbled back, turned away from Potter, and faced the wall. There was only one person who could have possibly done such a thing, because there was only one person with whom he'd shared a night since he left the country. There was only one person he knew (besides Rita Skeeter, of course) who was notorious for writing gossipy freelance articles for the _Daily Prophet_. Draco didn’t think Cornelius could break his heart any more than he already had, but Draco felt something inside of him shattering to pieces. Cornelius had taken their one night together and turned Draco into a public laughingstock. And Harry Potter had _read_ it.

“Are you alright? Malfoy?” Potter pressed a warm hand against Draco's shoulder.

"Don't _touch_ me, Potter," he snapped, rolling away from Potter's touch.

“You didn’t know,” Potter said. “Shit. _Shit._ Malfoy, I’m so sorry. When you said you hadn’t picked up a single British newspaper, I didn’t think you meant _literally_. I...I thought you _knew_.” Potter’s voice sounded strained, like he was struggling to find the balance between casual friendship and genuine concern.

“No,” Draco shook his head, trying not to sound as devastated as he felt, but failing miserably. “I didn’t.” Of course he didn’t know. Draco had spent far too much time avoiding the _Daily Prophet_ with the express intention of avoiding Potter’s stupid face.

"Malfoy..." Potter softly pressed his fingers to Draco’s spine, and Draco jolted toward the door as if he had just been burned by an Incendio spell. Something about all of this felt far too vulnerable. Being touched--especially being touched by Harry Potter--he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust it at all. He threw open the closet door, squinted against the light, and stormed down the hall.

-

As Draco stood in the dungeon alcove, it dawned on him that Potter had known. Potter had _known_ he was gay this whole time. Potter had known when he gave Draco that devouring look in the Great Hall. Potter had known when he found Draco by the dungeon entrance that first night.

_Well, if you prefer to sleep with rats..._

Oh bloody hell, that put a new spin on _that_ whole conversation, didn’t it? It was practically flirting. Where in the world _was_ Weaslette, anyway? When was she coming _back_ to put them all into their right minds? Draco couldn't take much more of this.

...Or the way Potter had leaned forward, almost _hopefully,_ when he had said, _So you’re not sleeping with rats, then?_

No. No. He was imagining all of it. Twisting the events.

Draco finally gave up on anything in the north dungeons, deciding that east was the most reliable direction. So he began exploring east, and the balls of light followed him down whichever corridor he chose. He poked his head into dungeon rooms as he passed them, allowing the balls of light to swirl into each room and circle the ceiling like flighty insects so that he could see. Many of the rooms were empty, or contained old furniture: moldy mattresses, crumbling barrels, and rusty chests. Just when Draco was considering turning back to get lunch, he opened a large wooden door and allowed the balls of light to flutter inside. The room wasn’t very wide compared to the first main dungeons room, but it was long. It appeared to keep going endlessly. The room was filled with worn wooden shelves, and the shelves were packed full with-- _yes_ \--vials. Draco could feel his mouth tightening into a smile. He felt like a child discovering a lost treasure room of toys.

The shelves were labeled alphabetically at the top with rough wooden shapes of letters. He walked past the A and the B, which had swung sideways so that the loops of the B faced downward like a plump arse. He found C, D, E, and there it was. The letter F was partially cracked through the middle but in far better condition than G, which was missing entirely. He began skimming potion titles. Faceless potion, no thank you. Fatal potion, best avoid that. Fear-mongering potion. Interesting. Feather potion. That could be practical, depending on its effects. Feces potion? Felatio potion? Who the hell thought that allowing sixteen year olds to invent their own potions was a good idea? The fertility potion at least sounded like it could be medicinally practical. Fisticuffs potion, he didn’t need. He was already trying very hard to not punch anyone in the face and didn’t need any encouragement in that regard. Flame-resistant potion, that sounded decent. Finally. _FO_. Focus potion, that must be a relative of Wit-Sharpening potion. As he approached FOU, his heart sank. Something had happened to them. Basilisk spit dripping from a pipe in the ceiling, possibly. Or age. Most of the potion labels between Foolproof and Fuel were damaged or completely illegible, with a few exceptions. Fountain of Blood and Fountain of Mead, for example, were disturbingly pristine.

“That’s just perfect,” he murmured to himself, leaning against the wall as he stared at the curling yellowed potion labels. He began sorting through them, turning them in circles so that he could see them from all angles. He found seven different potions that had a barely legible 

-NTAIN 

-F 

-UTH 

scrawled onto the labels. He opened his dragon leather satchel and began sticking the vials carefully into his vial holder, which had the capacity to fit twelve potions. Two slots were already holding Calming Draughts. Wanting to limit his trips to this room as much as possible but still intrigued by all of the potions at his disposal, he grabbed the Flame-resistant potion (just in case he needed to transport any more failed potions onto students' pillows) and two other potions with completely blank labels before returning to the brighter, warmer floors of Hogwarts.

-

After supper, he retreated to the Potions room to begin running potions tests. He spent the entire weekend running tests. He started by labeling each mysterious vial with a clear number. Then, starting with the first and working his way through the rest, he began to run tests to identify the ingredients within each of them. By Sunday night, he was fairly certain that number 3 was some kind of alcohol-based potion, whereas numbers 4 and 9 (8 and 9 had completely blank labels) possessed characteristics similar to some love potions, but the rest were far more unique. And what was worse: as he cross-referenced his work with his ancient texts, he discovered that each and every one of the UTH vials contained at least one ingredient that matched his expansive Fountain of Youth ingredients lists.

Which meant that he had reached the limits of his testable knowledge. 

Any single one of them could be what he was looking for, perhaps with the exception of 3, 4, and 9.

As he stared at his ingredients list, desperately wanting to get away from Hogwarts and Potter’s stupidly beautiful face as soon as possible, the answer seemed clear. Maybe a little irrational--lately he never felt very rational where Potter was concerned--but clear. He could test the potions on himself and study their effects directly. He looked back at the ingredients lists. Absolutely nothing that was listed was considered harmful or poisonous. He began running words ending in UTH through his mind. Youth, truth, sleuth. These things seemed innocent enough. And to improve matters, none of the potions contained a permanent bonding agent. Anything he tested would lose effect within 24 hours. And most of them were highly concentrated, which meant that he would only need to ingest a drop or two for them to take effect. Still, he knew he couldn’t try something this large and potentially dangerous on his own. He needed a second. He needed someone to spot him and send him to the Healing wing at the slightest sign of harm. If he was going to undergo something this irrational, he at least needed to run it by someone rational first. He needed to talk to Granger.

It was late on Sunday evening, but not so late that he expected Granger to be asleep. He crept into her office and poked his head in. She was sitting at her desk, organizing piles of parchment. Draco cleared his throat and her cat howled. Granger looked up. “Professor Malfoy,” she said, looking surprised. “Come in.” Draco entered her office properly and sat in a chair on the other side of her desk. “How are your classes going?” she asked.

“Fine,” he assured her, “but that’s not actually why I’m here. I’ve… made some advancements with the project we discussed.”

“Oh?” Granger asked, her face brightening. 

Draco explained his situation--his findings, his tests, and what he planned to do. Granger’s smile slowly, slowly turned into a frown. “This makes me nervous, Malfoy. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want anyone around you to get hurt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Have you considered rats? I know Hagrid would hate me for saying so, but that _is_ the more logical solution. The _safer_ solution.”

“Yes, but...if I’m being honest, Granger, I just don’t have that kind of time. Plus, you know as well as I do, that potions never work _quite_ the same way on rats as they do on humans.”

Granger sighed and put her fingers together, then pressed them against her chin as she leaned back in her chair. “Your first priority is your students,” she finally said. 

Draco nodded slowly. This meant no, didn’t it? He’d have to do his scientific research properly and responsibly like a bloody Muggle. He’d have to order the stupid rats, which meant he’d have to wait at least a month for them to arrive, and then he had to sort them and prepare a plan for quantitative data, set up a control group, test each potion one by one, and--

“Therefore, if you believe the potions should be out of your system within 24 hours, you are only allowed to ingest these potions--careful to consider the appropriate amounts, mind you--on the weekends, between Friday and Saturday evening, so that you have some time to recover before class on Monday. Is that clear?”

Draco nodded so violently that he thought his head might fly off of his neck. Granger was giving him permission to be impatient and irrational! This filled him with glee.

“But before you begin any tests,” she warned, “I require that you find someone to be present as you run these tests to monitor for any signs of distress.” 

“Yes, of course.”

“And let me know what you find, won’t you? I’m very interested to learn what sorts of potions we have been storing away.”

-

When Friday night arrived, Draco could hardly wait to begin. He was a little nervous, but mostly filled with excitement. Experimenting on himself was reckless and certainly not ideal, but it meant that he would know the effects of all potions within a couple of months. Rats could easily take years. 

The week had felt like it would never end, and now he went nearly skipping down to the kitchens, where he found a cluster of house elves cleaning the ovens. “You,” he pointed to one that looked familiar, the one that had shown him to his rooms when he first arrived.

“Me sir?”

“Yes. Follow me.” He was about to march back out of the room, but then stopped. He could almost hear Granger screaming at him. House elf revolutions and all. He was so used to commanding house elves about, that he hadn’t really thought about the implications of slavery. The last house elves he had actually interacted with had been back at Malfoy Manor. “Er… if you wish to do so. I need assistance.”

“I would be happy to assist you, Mr. Malfoy, sir.”

Draco led the house elf back to his desk in his rooms, where he had three vials in an open stand. “Now,” Draco said, turning to the house elf. “I am going to drink this potion. I do not know exactly what it will do. If I appear to be ill or in any pain of any kind, you need to contact a Healer immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir,” the house elf said, looking a little nervous. 

Draco sighed and stared at where he had placed the first vial on his desk. He may as well go in order. He had placed vials 3, 4, and 9 separate from the rest at the corner of his desk, as he intended to try those last. He opened his research journal to a blank page and dated it. He had already outlined his plans. He wrote: Potion 1, three drops ingested orally.

He turned the potion bottle in his hand, confirming that it was Potion 1. He re-read the scrawl he had discovered on the back of the vial when testing it. _When one door closes, another opens._ Well that sounded promising. A door to youth, perhaps? 

He pulled out an eyedropper, stuffed it into the first potion, and lifted it over his mouth until three drops fell onto his tongue. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed. 

At first, nothing happened. Then he started to feel very strange, like he was floating. And then the strange shifted into terrible, like he was floating and then falling while being pulled in a million different directions. He dizzily reached toward his desk table to support himself, and Potion 3 wobbled off the corner of his desk and shattered on the floor. 

He heard the house elf squeal, “Help, sir! I will get help, sir!” and Draco couldn’t stop the elf before it had disappeared with a _crack_. 

The room was spinning, and Draco just closed his eyes and laid down in the middle of the floor. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Why had he decided to do something so reckless and irresponsible? It was so...well, it was so _Gryffindor_ , wasn’t it? He groaned and gripped his hands to the sides of his head. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but finally the room stopped spinning. Finally he began to feel normal. He groaned and slowly pushed himself up to sit on the floor. “What the--”

There was a round, three-tiered white fountain at the corner of his desk on the floor, about two feet across and four feet high. It was precisely where Potion 3 had spilled. Draco crawled over to the potion and sniffed. It smelled terrible, yet vaguely familiar. He reached a finger into the fountain, watching a nearly-clear liquid run over his finger. He brought his finger to his nose, and then placed his finger on his tongue. “Vermouth,” he told the fountain as if it should be ashamed of itself. “A Fountain of Vermouth.” Again, this is why students should not be allowed to create their own potions. Or at least why Hogwarts should not be saving all of them in the dungeons alongside donations like ingenious dissertations.

Draco stared at the fountain, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the house elf to return with someone to heal or scold him. Waiting for the first potion to...well, _do_ something. Without moving off of the floor, Draco lazily summoned a mug from his bedside table and stuck it into the falling vermouth between the second and third tier. He took a sip. It wasn’t terrible, as far as vermouth went. Still, he felt a little unnerved by Potion 1. Sure, he had felt like absolute shite for a few minutes, but was that it? It didn’t _feel_ like that should be it. Still not trusting his legs yet, he summoned his research journal and quill and began to report what had happened so far. The Fountain of Vermouth had clearly been a result of Potion 3, which explained its alcohol characteristic. Potion 1 was still a giant question mark. 

He looked at the clock. It was already half past ten. Clearly the house elf was not coming back. He stood and walked toward his wardrobe to change out of his clothes and into pyjamas. And then the strangest thing happened. When he opened the door to his wardrobe, he was blinking not into his wardrobe but into Harry Potter’s bedroom. Where Harry Potter stood not ten feet in front of him, wearing starched black trousers. Wearing only his trousers. _Unzipping_ his trousers. The muscles in his arms were rolling subtly from his movements in the dim light. His head was down, gravity pulling dark hair over his eyes. Draco held his breath as he ran his eyes over Potter’s naked chest, the teasing trail of dark hair disappearing into his trousers.

“I’m going to have to stop you there,” Draco said shakily, his eyes fixed on Potter’s hands. His eyes fixed on Potter’s bare chest. His eyes fixed on Potter’s everything.

Potter nearly jumped out of his skin and immediately zipped up his trousers. “Merlin, Malfoy, what the bloody hell are you doing in my wardrobe?”

“I could ask you the same, Potter. I believe _you_ are in _my_ wardrobe.” _Looking fit as fuck._ Had Draco’s _face_ been pressed against that muscled chest, only weeks ago? His knees went a little weak at the thought. Draco looked away from Potter, just to look at anything else, and then realized he was staring at Potter’s bed. _Married with children and straight as an arrow._ _Married with children and straight as an arrow_.

“Fine,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “But _why_ am I in your wardrobe?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. Hold on. Going to test something.” Malfoy stepped aside and out of view, pinched himself, _hard,_ and then stepped in front of his wardrobe again. Potter was still standing on the other side, except he was wriggling into a scarlet and gold button-up pyjama top. Except the scarlet was more a fading shade of vomitous puce, and the gold looked like the colour of a sweat-stained undershirt, and the sleeves were at least six inches too long.

“Salazar’s bollocks, Potter, that is the most hideous thing I have ever seen.”

“Oh,” Potter said flatly. “You’re back.”

“No, really, you actually wear that to sleep?” Malfoy said, leaning through the wardrobe for a better look.

Potter sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Malfoy, I actually wear this to sleep.”

“You mean you actually let it _touch_ you? It deserves to be drowned in the lake. It is literally making me cry. Look at my eyes, Potter. Look.”

“Well usually no one sees them. Because they’re my pyjamas.”

“See that, Potter?” Draco pointed to the corner of his eye, hoping that it would divert Potter from his reddening ears. No one saw Potter’s pyjamas? _He_ was seeing Potter’s pyjamas. But that didn’t even make any sense. Potter was married. Maybe Weaslette just didn’t comment on the terrible state of Potter’s pyjamas, because she had equally terrible taste. Or maybe--did married people stop counting their partner as an actual person? No matter. Whoever was failing to mock Potter’s pyjamas was failing at life. Draco would make up for it. “Look at it. That’s an actual tear.”

Potter crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his feet. “Ginny gave them to me,” he murmured quietly.

“Ha! I knew it. Only a Weasley could appreciate something so ugly.”

Potter’s face scrunched and his eyes flared as he looked back up at Draco. Then Potter slammed his wardrobe closed. Draco blinked into the dark for a moment. He poked his finger against the back of Potter’s wardrobe door. It didn’t budge. He pressed his ear to it, but it seemed to behave like a normal wardrobe door should. Draco retrieved his silken green robe and closed his wardrobe, then turned back into his room to see three giggling students crowding around his Fountain of Vermouth.

“What!” was all he could manage to say.

One of them--Draco recognized her as Flora from his fifth year class--gasped. “Professor Malfoy! Is this… yours?” 

“Why? How?”

She pointed sheepishly to a door next to his desk that was most _definitely_ not there a moment ago.

Draco pointed to it. “Out.” 

Her eyes shone. “Can we take some back to our common room if we promise not to tell?”

“Out!” The three students skittered back to the door, opened it, and were gone. The door seemed to melt into the wall, and then he was staring at his normal wall. With minimal movement, he slid his mug off of his desk, stuck it under the Fountain of Vermouth, brought it to his lips, and took several cringingly large gulps. A door opened in his ceiling. “OUT!” he yelled. It slammed closed immediately.

This was going to be a long, long weekend. He sat down in his chair and made a highly technical research note, feeling the vermouth begin to take effect. 

_Potion 1. Fountain of: Fuck, What in the Actual._

Another door flew open from his wall. “Oh! Mr. Malfoy, sir, I brought help!” the house elf cried eagerly.

“Too late! Out!”

“But Mr. Malfoy sir, I--”

“Out!” The door timidly closed.

Draco crawled into bed wearing his green silk robe, still wearing his clothes underneath. He didn’t feel safe undressing. Doors kept opening in strange places in his room, and he kept having to shout “Out!” over and over and over. So many late-night students seemed to gravitate toward his vermouth fountain before they noticed his presence that he had to put a protective ward over it. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He opened the door to his room and walked through it. Into the Hufflepuff common room, if the colours were any indication. Two lady Hufflepuffs were fiercely snogging in front of the fireplace. They looked up at Draco and squeaked, one scrambling off of the other. Draco turned right back around and walked back through the door. Closed it. Looked around his room. Opened it again, and walked into the shallows of the lake. Turned around. Closed it. Dried his trousers with the wave of a wand. Opened the door again. Stepped into the greenhouse. Turned back into his room. The room where he had drank Potion 1. As he stood by his front door, scratching his head, a door appeared in his floor. A student’s face popped up, a little at an angle, like a confused groundhog, and then retreated. “Wait!” Draco called. He walked over to the door, where a young Albus Severus Potter was looking nervously at him from the Slytherin dormitory toilets. Draco felt a little out of sorts looking at a boy in his floor who was clearly standing upright in another room elsewhere in the castle, but from Draco's perspective appeared to be lying flat on his back in Draco's floor. “Step back,” Draco said. “I’m coming through.”

Draco sat at the edge of the door frame, letting his feet dangle in the air for a moment before placing his feet on the familiar floor of the Slytherin toilets, and slowly, slowly slid through. It felt bloody strange, having gravity shift directions around him like that. “Close it,” Draco said, once on his hands and knees on the tile floor. Albus closed the door. Draco pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his hands and knees. “Mr. Potter! I am hoping you can help me with a little project.” Draco immediately walked over to the sink to wash his hands. “What door did you just try to open?”

“That one, Professor Malfoy.” He pointed at the main door.

“Can you open it again for me?” Draco asked, soaping his hands beneath the water.

Albus opened it again. Draco flicked water from his hands and reached for a towel. Draco craned his head out of the room, looking into the hallway of the Slytherin male dormitories. His heart warmed a little at the sight. How he missed it.

“Can you tell me what happened when you opened the door the first time? Were you casting a spell, anything like that?” 

“Er...this… this isn’t for a test or anything, is it, Professor?” Albus asked nervously.

“No! Nothing like that.”

“I guess I was thinking that when I got back to my room I should probably cast a silencing charm on my snoring roommate.” 

“That’s…not helpful at all.” Albus’ face sank, and he looked practically terrified. Draco instantly felt guilty. “I mean yes! Brilliant! Thank you for your assistance. Three points for Slytherin.” Draco hoped his smile didn’t appear as false as it felt. Really, he was running on vermouth and frustration and nothing about the doors was making any sense.

Albus smiled. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes, yes. Fine.”

Draco closed the door to the Slytherin toilets. Opened it again. And walked right back into his bedroom. Whatever this was, it seemed to be distinctly tied to his room. And at this rate, the vermouth was making him so drowsy that he was getting too tired to care about late-night students walking into his room. He cast protective wards over all of his belongings, cast cushioning charms on all of his walls so that no students would injure themselves by falling into his room from odd angles, set up several ladders throughout the room in case any students needed to get back into the ceiling, and crawled into his bed. He threw his robe and black leather gauntlet toward a chair, let his hair down, flicked his bedcurtains closed with his wand, crawled under his covers, and shimmied out of his clothes. He made small snow angels in his sheets. Silk, silk, silk on his bare skin. This felt right. Now he could finally sleep.

-

Draco jumped rudely awake, shouting in a panic and reaching for his wand as something (Werewolves? Death Eaters? Hippogriffs?) attacked him. Er. Tackled him. Er. Fell on him. From the ceiling of his bedcurtains. The heavy body on top of him groaned. Draco blinked, his tired mind still waking up after he had already reflexively cast an Incarcerous on the unfortunate git who just--

“Oh. Morning, Potter.” It was morning, wasn’t it? It was very hard to tell with his bedcurtains tightly closed to shut out any light. “So nice of you to drop in. There’s a problem with the doors, in case you haven’t noticed. They are determined to make my life miserable.”

“Malfoy?” Potter asked, still sounding half asleep himself. “Fucking _ow_.” Potter was still wearing his hideous pyjamas.

“Quite.”

“What did you _do_?”

“I seem to be having a little potions problem.” Potter blinked dumbly at him. Merlin, his face was close. Why was his face so close? Why was his chest pressed so tightly against his? Potter lifted his chin and arced his neck, trying to push against Draco’s mattress with his elbows as he blinked even more dumbly at the ceiling. “A potions problem involving doors,” Draco clarified. Potter, growing tired of awkwardly straining to see the roof of Draco’s bedcurtains, allowed his face to fall against the mattress in the space between Draco’s neck and shoulder. Draco tried very hard to ignore Potter’s hot, heavy breaths against his neck, but they were threatening to give him a terrible case of gooseflesh. The feeling of Potter’s hideous pyjamas against his bare shoulders. Potter’s warm chest and shoulders, pressed so tightly against his own. _Breathe_.

“Did you try to nullify it with a-- Why can’t I move my arms or legs? Did you cast Incarcerous on me, you tosser?” So that’s why Potter was still on top of him, breathing heavily into his neck. He couldn’t very well lift himself off.

Draco was growing aware of Potter’s precarious position. On top of him. With the inability to move. When Potter had fallen, Potter’s hands, hiding deep within his too-long pyjama sleeves, had been on either side of Malfoy’s head, and now they were pressed tightly together behind Draco’s neck, bound at the wrists. Potter’s legs were also bound tightly together from thigh to ankle, and….

Draco swallowed.

Potter was _so_ very much on top of him.

Incapable of moving.

Potter was lying between Draco’s open legs wearing only his hideous pyjamas and a thin pair of plaid cotton undershorts. 

And Draco was wearing...well...nothing. 

And somehow during the night he had kicked his blankets off.

So only a silk sheet was separating them.

And Potter was still breathing hotly into his neck.

And Potter’s stiff wand was smashed almost painfully right against--

No. 

This wasn’t happening. 

Nononono. 

That wasn’t Potter’s wand.

It was far too thick for that. And Draco knew, because he knew Potter’s wand intimately. 

_Fuck_.

Potter had an erection. 

Draco could tell, because it was positioned directly on top of _his_ erection.

It _was_ still early in the morning, after all, and it would be perfectly natural under normal circumstances. ...But these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.

Now their erect cocks were separated only by a thin layer of cotton and a thin layer of silk. Draco could feel _everything._ Every curve, every movement, every breath. He was suddenly in such agony he thought he might _die_.

Potter hurled himself upright on his elbows, gasping, his eyes wide and his face barely a foot from Draco’s. Draco saw that Potter was having this same realization. And saw Potter realize that Draco was realizing it. Potter’s attempt to lift his face had only served to put more weight in the lower half of his body, pressing their erect cocks even tighter together, adding friction as Potter shifted. The heat, the friction--it felt so _good_ and so impossible for Draco to actually _have_ that Draco heard himself involuntarily groan a little. Potter was assaulting his senses. He could feel the heat of Potter’s lower back through his pyjamas--Merlin, when had his hands moved _there_?--and the way Potter’s chest was rising and falling against his own.

And then there was Potter himself. His entire face was flushed crimson as he blinked awkwardly, breathing hot on Draco’s face with atrocious morning breath in his hideous pyjamas. He had crust at the edges of his eyes and hair that defied gravity, and he was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen. 

Draco stared past Potter and up into the door in the ceiling of his bedcurtains. Right into Potter’s disastrous bedroom. _Married with children and straight as an arrow. Married with children and straight as an arrow._ Really, Potter was an absolute slob--what did Draco see in him? Nothing. Obviously. He couldn’t see anything in someone who was such a slob, even if it _was_ sort of endearing in its own way, and he rather loved how rumpled Potter’s bed looked, and _fuck_.

Draco nervously glanced back at Potter, who was now just… _gazing_ at him. Oh Merlin, were their faces this close a moment ago? Potter’s eyes were so gentle, so open, so captivating. He had to say something. He had to move his mouth to form words or else he might move his mouth a little too close to Potter’s. Or worse, he might move his hips.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered. Potter’s eyebrow furrowed a little, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just kept staring at Draco’s eyes--no, Draco’s _mouth_ , with those lips so full and--Draco cleared his throat. “Not for mocking your pyjamas, because they really are hideous, Potter. But for mocking the Weasleys.”

Potter smiled faintly down at him, his eyes all kindness and understanding. Oh it was _maddening_. Why couldn’t Potter look at him with disgust and hatred like he used to? “I know,” he whispered. He wasn’t wearing his eyeglasses, and Draco found that he kind of liked it, being able to clearly see Potter’s eyes. Well, he was realizing he kind of liked Potter’s face regardless of whether he was wearing glasses or not. It was such a strange and silly thing to realize, but he had never really had the opportunity to realize it before. He was realizing a lot of things, really.

 _Married with children and straight as an arrow_. _Married with children and--_ _ugh this had to stop._ “I mean they still have terrible taste, obviously,” Draco stammered awkwardly. “Because they seem to keep hanging around _you_ for some reason, but I know they really aren’t so bad once you get to know--”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” But the words lacked edge. Potter spoke them in the same tone that someone might say: _I’ll make dinner tonight_ or _You have the most beautiful hair_. Or so Draco imagined. No one had said any of those things to him in his life, so he wouldn’t really know. Still, Draco could feel himself unraveling. He could feel himself coming completely undone beneath Potter’s gaze. _Merlin_ , what was this man doing to him?

Draco felt Potter’s thumb moving almost imperceptibly along the back of his neck beneath his pyjama sleeves, and it sent a jolt of electricity rushing through every inch of his body. He felt his cock throb, and he knew Potter felt it too, because Potter’s mouth twitched--just _barely_ at one corner--into the tiniest little arrogant smirk. And Draco felt his breath hitch. Why was that so fucking sexy? Usually he hated that smirk. It was abhorrent. It drove him crazy. _He_ was supposed to be the one doing the smirking. Yet Potter was on top of him with his eyes ablaze, smirking that arrogant little smirk because he had just made Draco’s cock twitch, looking _so_ fucking pleased with himself in that Harry Potter way of his, and Draco knew it was probably the sleep deprivation and the lingering vermouth and the morning erection, but now that look was driving him crazy in a completely different way. Now he wanted to replace that smug look with something else. He wanted... 

Oh, he _so_ desperately wanted to…

He leaned upward, ever so.

Potter’s eyes were still aflame, and he looked like he might lean down to-- 

Their noses met at the tips, and then Draco allowed the tip of his nose to skim lightly down the side of Potter’s nose. A warm, tingling heat blossomed between that slightest touch of their bare skin, and Draco felt his fingers clench more tightly against Potter’s back, pulling the fabric of Potter’s pyjamas into his fists. Morgana’s tits, it was possible that Draco had never been more aroused in his entire life. His hips thrust half an inch before he could stop himself. “Draco,” Potter’s voice was something between a whisper and a groan, his voice tight as Potter shifted his hips. Draco nearly moaned in agony at the additional friction against his cock. He could feel the heat coming off of Potter’s lips. Potter, the beautiful mouth-breather, was practically panting against his _mouth_.

A crash came from the other side of the bed curtains. “Merlin’s beard!” a young voice cried. 

“Out!” Draco yelled, allowing his head to come crashing back onto his pillow, the enchantment between him and Potter--thank Merlin for small miracles--broken. One more minute, and he almost assuredly would have been snogging Harry Potter, Lifelong Archenemy of Draco Malfoy and Saviour of the Wizarding World. What the bloody hell had he been thinking? _Nothing_ , clearly. Potter had the frightening ability to do that to him. Potter’s brainlessness was a contagion upon all humankind. A door slammed, and Potter let his head fall back down against the mattress by Draco’s neck and cleared his throat.

“So I suppose this is what you meant about the doors,” he murmured against the mattress.

“Yes, Potter, this is what I meant about the doors.” 

“Right. So...can you…?” Potter kicked his bound legs upward at the knees, flapping them twice in the air like a bloody mermaid. Which did _not_ help Draco’s raging erection. 

Draco undid the Incarcerous, and Draco and Potter scrambled away from each other as quickly as possible. Potter grabbed one of the many green silk pillow from behind Draco’s head and sat up, pulling the pillow immediately to his crotch. Draco pulled himself into an upright position, bending his knees high and wide beneath the sheet so that his erection wasn’t visible. He pulled the sheets up to his neck. He really wasn’t ready for anyone to see his Dark Mark or his scars. Sure, Potter already _knew_ about them, but that didn’t matter. No one saw it. No one. The last person he let get that close was Cornelius, and Cornelius was...well. He didn’t want to think about Cornelius. _Or_ his stupid article.

“Can we just--?” Potter asked.

“Pretend this never happened? Absolutely.” Best that Weaslette not find out, anyway, or she might hex Draco’s bollocks off.

“Er.” Potter scratched the side of his jaw. “Right.” Potter looked up at the open door in the ceiling above them. “So!” Potter breathed, his voice high-pitched. “...I didn’t know potions could cast magic like this.”

“Neither did I, to be honest. But these aren’t your usual potions, either.” Draco told him about his discovery and his new potion experiments. 

Potter frowned at him. “That seems really dangerous, Malfoy. What if the remaining potions affect other people too? What if they hurt _you_ and no one is around to help?”

“Well, I-- sort of had assistance. From a house elf.” Draco pulled a strand of long blonde hair over his ear and smiled a little sheepishly at Potter, who smiled back. Potter was sitting in his _bed_. And they were just... _talking._ After nearly _kissing_. First thing on a Saturday morning. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Draco kind of liked it.

A door opened. “Out!” Draco yelled.

“Um. Malfoy?”

“Granger?” Draco called, not bothering to open the curtains or mask his surprise. “Is that you?”

“Why am I in your bedroom?”

Potter leaned a little farther back toward the foot of the bed and poked his head out of Draco’s bedcurtains. 

“Harry? W-Why are _you_ in Malfoy’s bedroom?” 

The back of Potter’s neck turned the shade of a beet. “I uh… well I er...” he giggled in a short, overly-innocent, high-pitched sort of way.

“Oh for the love of--” _Ugh._ Leave it to Potter to turn into a stammering imbecile. Draco flicked open the bedcurtains with his wand and blinked against the light, so that the whole situation looked...well... _slightly_ less indecent. Granger was wearing a tasteful, flowing purple robe that just barely touched the floor. “For the same reason you are, Granger,” Draco said, pointing upward.

“Yes, but why?” she asked, stepping closer and folding her arms over her chest while squinting up at the door above Draco’s bed.

“I tried the first potion last night.”

Granger was standing on her tiptoes at the end of Draco’s bed, trying to get a better look at the door. “And it’s doing _this_? Goodness, I’ve never heard of such a thing. A potion shouldn’t be able to affect anyone but the person consuming it, with the rare exception of love potions and the like. But even so, they certainly don’t utilize this kind of magic. Or...so I thought.” Granger blinked confoundedly at the door in the ceiling, and then brightened. “It _is_ quite promising for future research, isn’t it, Draco? If we are able to isolate the--”

“Bloody hell!” a new voice called from across the room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Draco yelled, looking over to see Ron Weasley cowering in the middle of the open doorway in the wall wearing nothing but his thin cotton shorts. “Merlin’s tits, Weasley, put some clothes on. My _eyes_ , honestly,” Draco murmured, summoning his robe from the chair by his bed and slipping it quickly around himself before Weasley could come up with some thoughtful retort about the rather hypocritical fact that Draco was only wearing a sheet. 

“In here, darling!” Granger called absentmindedly without even turning to look.

“Lucky me,” Draco said, smoothing the robe over his scars before anyone could see and fastening the belt just as Weasley stumbled into his bedroom. “The gang’s all here.”

Weasley was looking very confused and still far more naked than Draco ever wanted to see any Weasley _ever_. “Um….Babe...Why does your wardrobe lead to Malfoy’s bedroom?”

“Because we’re shagging, obviously.” Draco couldn’t resist an opportunity to poke Weasley with a stick, and was rewarded when Weasley looked up at him with a murderous glare. Draco glanced at Potter to make sure he hadn’t crossed a line, but Potter was trying too hard not to laugh to notice.

Granger rolled her eyes. “He’s only joking, love. Besides, you _know?_ He’s--?” Granger gave Ron a _come on, you know this, dummy,_ sort of look, and Weasley visibly relaxed. 

“Does the entire _world_ know I’m gay?” 

“Well, nearly,” Weasley shrugged. Then he noticed Potter sitting on Draco’s bed. “Harry, mate, you _didn’t_.” Potter, glowing crimson again, pointed to the door in the ceiling while sheepishly looking at the pillow against his crotch. “Right,” Weasley said, not sounding like he understood at all.

“Do you know how long it will last?” Granger asked. 

“Should be over by tonight. I hope,” Draco said. A door opened in the floor beneath his desk chair, which clattered toward the wall. “Out!” he shouted. The door slammed closed, and his chair fell sideways onto the floor.

“What do you think could be causing it?” Granger studied the floor where the door had disappeared. “I mean do all doors lead here? There has to be some kind of pattern.”

“So far I have surmised that doors--at random--will lead to this room. And the doors currently closed in this room never lead to where they’re supposed to. The other doors leading here, though, I really don’t understand. It doesn’t make much sense. I asked A...a student last night what they were thinking about when they opened the door that led here, and they said they were going to try to get a student to stop snoring. No active spells. Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Granger bit her lip. “What did you say the ingredients were?”

Draco listed off the ingredients he had been able to identify.

“So it seems like there should be a human element in all of this, don’t you think?”

“There could be.”

“When I opened my wardrobe I was thinking about all of the things I had to accomplish today. What were you thinking about, Harry? When you fell in here?”

“What? Oh. I...” Potter's face reddened. “I don’t know, I was still half asleep. I guess I was thinking of...er...a dream I had. And what I would like to be doing about it.”

Granger looked thoughtful. “Well all of us were thinking about something with very direct purpose. Something to accomplish. What opportunities would be available to--”

“Is this _alcohol_? Why can’t we have an alcohol fountain in our room?” Weasley was staring at the Fountain of Vermouth, which was still going strong.

Granger completely ignored him. “Oh, that’s it! Opportunities.” Granger lifted a finger and moved it as if she were skimming through the contents of a book. “It’s the Fountain of Scouth,” she nodded proudly.

“A fountain of say what now?” Potter asked.

“Scouth, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes. “ _Honestly_ , you have the vocabulary of an infant.” 

“Opportunity,” Granger was clarifying. “The people who likely end up in this room are thinking with some kind of purpose in mind. Pursuing some kind of opportunity. And the magic is somehow linked not to you, Malfoy, but to where the potion was consumed. Like that,” Granger pointed at the Fountain of Vermouth. “I would bet that came directly from a potion, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but that was a very different--”

A door opened from another wall. Draco opened his mouth, but Granger beat him to it. “You!” she called. “What were you just thinking about?”

“Erm. How hungry I am and what I would like to eat for breakfast? Headmistress?”

“ThankyouOUT!” Draco yelled. The door slammed shut.

“Yes, I think that might be it. How fascinating. And, frankly, terrifying. This type of magic with this level of power in a potion is... we should do more research on both of these potions.”

“A-heh-HEM.” Weasley tapped his bare foot against the rug.

“Okay, okay, _you_ should do more research on this, Draco. I have a tendency to try to take on too much. Who did you get to assist you? Was it you, Harry?”

“It was a house elf,” Potter said.

Granger gasped like she had just spotted Bellatrix LeStrange. “Professor _Malfoy_.” Oh no. He was Professor Malfoy again. “When I asked you to find a volunteer, I most certainly did not mean a house elf. You need a fellow faculty member--not a house elf or even a student--you need someone who is competent enough to deal with the unexpected and has at least some basic knowledge of potions or healing spells.”

Draco slumped forward. He was Draco _Malfoy_. Who the hell would want to sit with him while he ran potions experiments? “I don’t suppose you would be interested, Granger?”

“Like hell she is!” Weasley called.

“How about you, Weasley?” 

“Have you gone mental?!”

“Potter?”

Potter shifted uncomfortably, blushing a little. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea--” he cleared his throat. “I have patrol, and...” he murmured something completely unintelligible.

“I will post a volunteer request in the Faculty Room on Monday morning, and I will mention it in our meeting later this week. If no one volunteers to assure your safety, and the safety of others, then I cannot allow these experiments to continue. Is that clear?” Granger even _sounded_ like McGonagall. He was almost afraid of her, even though she was wearing a lavender bathrobe. She was a perfect headmistress. 

“Yes,” Draco said reluctantly. It was better than nothing.

“Crimony,” Weasley smiled, still standing in his undershorts, his eyes glistening at Granger. “You just scolded Malfoy like he was an eleven year old boy.”

“I did _not!_ Draco, you know how much I respect your work, and--”

“ _You just. Scolded. Malfoy.”_ He repeated for emphasis. “That was almost as good as when you punched him. Damn it, witch, I love you.” Weasley pulled on Granger’s sleeve.

“Really, Weasley?” Draco asked disgustedly.

“Shut it, Malfoy, let me have this! It was hot as hell!”

“Well, I guess I’d better--Ron!” Granger giggled as Weasley swooped her off of the floor and into his bare arms.

Granger allowed Weasley to carry her back toward the door from which they came. “See you at breakfast, Harry!” she called as Weasley pressed his mouth to her neck and slammed the door closed with his foot.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Draco murmured, and he did feel a little nauseous after Weasley and Granger’s hideous display. Merlin, what would it be like to have someone like that in his life? To be so comfortable with someone? To swoop someone up and kiss their neck and...he blinked over at Potter. Potter blinked back.

“Well, I suppose I should...” Potter stammered, adjusting his shorts beneath the pillow at his crotch.

“Shall I help you back to your bedroom?” Draco stood, his robe cascading down to his knees. Now Potter was staring at Draco’s bare knees. Running his eyes from Draco’s knees, down to his feet, and back again. “Potter?”

Potter looked up. “What? Bed?”

“Would you like a boost? Back to your room?”

“Right! Yes! A boost!” He stood up too quickly and lost his balance on the mattress. He toppled forward, his head nearly colliding into Draco’s chest. Potter reached reflexively up toward Draco’s shoulders, and Draco pressed his hands to Potter’s arms to steady him. Potter straightened, and, well he was _there_ again, wasn’t he? Standing so miserably close with his stupid miserable face. Potter’s biceps clenched through his pyjamas beneath Draco’s hands, and Draco tried very hard not to squeeze.

“I’ll warn you though, the shift in gravity does feel a bit odd. Ready?” Draco asked.

“Ready.”

Draco cast a _Wingardium Leviosa_ to lift Potter through the door and float him gently back to his bedroom floor, trying desperately not to stare at Potter’s shapely bum in the process. 

“Alright?” Draco asked, wishing to keep Potter safe in his levitation spell until Potter had found his footing.

“I’ve got my feet back on the ground,” Potter said, crouching with his hands on his knees on his bedroom floor.

Draco released the spell. Potter pushed himself to his feet and walked to the open door. Draco was still standing on his bed in a silk robe, looking up at Potter, who was now standing in a doorway in the ceiling of Draco’s bedcurtains. Such strange magic, this was. 

What was Potter waiting for? Why wasn’t he closing the door? Why was he just staring at Draco with his stupid adorable face? Maybe he was still a little disoriented from the shift in gravity. Yes, that was probably it. “Feels a bit different, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm,” The corner of Potter’s mouth curved into a smile. “A bit.” Potter’s voice was filled with--well, _something_. Something kind of like heat. “But I think I rather liked it.” Draco swallowed. Potter was looking at him in _such_ a way. A way that made him feel so weak he had to curl his toes against his mattress to not fall over. "You're welcome to sweep me off my feet again any time you like." Then Potter closed the door with that fucking pleased-with-himself smile, leaving Draco with the torturous thought that maybe Potter hadn’t been talking about levitation spells at all.


	5. Chapter 5

The doors had gone to rights by early Saturday afternoon, to everyone’s relief. Draco had spent most of Sunday napping, and the rest of the week trying to focus on anything but the memory of Potter in his bed.

It was a challenge. 

Because he very frequently found himself focusing on the memory of Harry Potter in his bed. The feeling of Potter’s hot breath against his neck. Against his _mouth_. Potter’s seductive little, “I think I rather liked it.”

That tosser.

That complete tosser.

Merlin, this was a disaster. Potter was ruining his life. As usual. He had just discovered new and inventive ways to do it.

Draco spent his time teaching, trying not to let Potter or his children drive him to madness, and doing his best to avoid direct contact with Potter. He still kept an eye on him from the battlements, but that was more for school _safety_ really. Whenever Draco got too frustrated, he took great pleasure in removing points from Gryffindor on account of James’ predictably snobbish behavior in his classroom. Whenever he found that he needed a break, he walked the grounds, usually along the lake, around the Quidditch pitch, and back to the castle.

On Wednesday morning as he was walking by the Quidditch pitch, he saw three figures on broomsticks hovering above the field. As he neared them, he identified Potter with Lily Luna and James Sirius. Weasley was on the ground beneath them, shouting instructions as he threw a snitch into the air, and the Potters dove for it. Draco smiled and stopped, watching them. Potter looked... _happy_. He had that goofy, oblivious grin on his face as he chased after a snitch with his children. Draco realized that he wanted Potter to look at _him_ that way. Not just with a smile here or there, but with joy. Pure, unsullied _joy._

Potter wouldn’t have been able to experience anything like this as an orphan, Draco realized. He wasn’t sure what Potter’s childhood was like, but it certainly wouldn’t have involved his parents playing Quidditch with him. And that smile. Something within Draco began to ache. Had Draco _ever_ been that happy? Ever? He couldn’t remember. He’d been running from his past for so long, passing the nights with sleeping draughts, focusing on research for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been happy. Cornelius had lightened his heart a little before he broke it, but it had never been enough to make him feel really, truly happy. Draco watched Potter with a new sort of envy. After all these years, he still wanted what Potter had. He wanted joy. And far worse: a tickling part of the back of his brain said that he wanted that joy with Potter. 

But Potter wasn’t his to have.

Draco turned away, his chest tight. _Married with children and straight as an arrow. Married with children and straight as an arrow_. 

“Malfoy?”

Draco could feel himself cringing as Potter called his name. Draco kept walking. Maybe Potter would give up and leave him alone. Potter appeared a few feet ahead of Draco, hovering on his broom. “Join us? Four would make for two even teams. I’m trying to help Lily and James improve their Seeker skills.”

Draco glanced behind Potter to see Lily and James, small and distant, hovering at the far end of the pitch. Hadn’t he wanted to be a part of that joy, only moments ago? And then his eyes dropped to the bright patch of red hair on the green. “I won’t have Weasley ordering me around,” Draco said defiantly, and even _he_ realized that he sounded a bit like a sullen teenager.

Harry almost laughed. “He’s just releasing the balls for us. He’s busy strategizing for another game.”

Draco’s eyes lifted to Potter, who was still hovering in the air in his Quidditch gear and looking very much like sex on a broomstick. “I’ll dirty my robes,” was all he could think of saying.

“Take them off,” Potter said, his face reddening the instant the words left his mouth. 

Draco’s mouth tightened into a smile. “If you insist, Potter.” He really shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He slowly reached up to the top button of his robes and undid one. Button. After. Another. Potter’s eyes followed Draco’s hand, and as Draco slid his hand smoothly down the middle of his robes to part them open, Potter’s eyes flicked back to Draco’s face. “I’ll need a broom,” Draco said, floating his robes over to a bench with a flick of his wand. Potter didn’t say anything, didn’t even appear to be holding a wand, but a sleek broom flew from somewhere in the pitch and smacked into Potter’s open palm. Potter extended his arm, pointing the tip of the broom toward Draco without even breaking eye contact. Draco took the broom cautiously, suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t flown in fifteen years, and painfully aware of how much he wanted to impress Potter, rather than fall flat on his face. This may have been a bad idea. He looked at Potter nervously. Or...maybe it hadn’t been a bad idea? Potter was _swallowing_ him with his eyes. Draco supposed that Potter hadn’t seen him out of his robes--with the exception of the recent bedroom incident--in ages. Draco was wearing neatly trimmed charcoal trousers and a long-sleeved silver shirt with an emerald waistcoat. Draco smiled, thinking about Potter’s coy little smile Saturday morning and his “ _I think I rather liked it_.” With the hand not holding the broom, Draco slowly reached down and began unfastening his waistcoat, one silver button at a time. He slid it off of his shoulders and sent it floating over to his robes. Potter’s eyes were glued to the silver shirt fitted tightly against Draco’s lean chest. Then Draco unfastened the cufflinks of his shirt sleeves, taking his time. He rolled his left sleeve up first, revealing the black leather gauntlet he kept around his Dark Mark. And then rolled up his right, slowly baring the pale skin of his forearm. When Draco had finished, Potter’s eyes darted back to Draco’s face as though he was trying not to get caught looking. “You name the teams,” Draco said, wriggling his fingers into a pair of thin black gloves.

“I--” Potter cleared his throat. “I suppose it would make the most sense to have us on opposite teams. To make things more even. And since James...well maybe it would be better if you teamed with Lily.”

Draco felt a little unsteady as he kicked off of the ground and into the air. He wavered on his broom at first as he slowly flew toward the Quidditch pitch. And then it was easy, as natural as breathing. Draco leaned forward, his broom darting up toward Lily and James.

“Hello, Professor Malfoy!” Lily called smilingly.

“ _He’s_ playing?” James said disgustedly.

“Only a quick game, Mr. Potter,” Draco said. “As a bit of an experiment, you see. Your father wants to see if hatred for the opponent improves your skills.”

“I do _not_!” Potter insisted, looking at Draco with a small smile. “James, you and I will try one round against Professor Malfoy and Lily. Whichever team catches the snitch first wins. Ready?”

“Ready Dad!” Lily called eagerly.

“Ready, Professor Potter,” Draco said, unable to keep the amused smile from his face.

“Hey Uncle Ron!” Potter called down to the green. “Can you throw the snitch for us please?”

“Oi!” Weasley said, busy jotting plays on a piece of parchment. Without even looking up, he threw a golden snitch into the air and kept on writing.

As soon as the snitch was released, the four of them began zooming around the pitch, watching for it. Lily glimpsed it first, darting toward one end of the pitch, but Draco didn’t see any sign of it. Then he saw the snitch glittering in the opposite direction and realized that she was _pretending_. She was giving everyone the false notion that the snitch was in the wrong place, distracting everyone to give Draco a chance to dive for the snitch. Fucking brilliant. She was more Slytherin with every passing day. As Draco extended an arm and reached for the snitch, James bashed into his side, the tip of James’ broom crashing into his ribs so hard that for a moment Draco thought he might have fractured something. Unlike the rest of them, Draco wasn’t wearing any protective gear. He gripped his broom tightly with both hands and tried to steady himself, pressing a hand instinctively to his ribs. 

“James!” Potter yelled harshly, flying over to them. “I’ll see no more of _that_ , you understand me? You alright, Malfoy?”

Draco nodded and looked warily at James, who was glaring daggers at him. His wariness instantly transformed into a haughty giggle that he couldn’t hold back. The look in James’ eyes, that bitterness, was vaguely familiar. It reminded him of...well, it reminded him of himself. “Excellent speed, Mr. Potter. Had you actually been focusing on the snitch instead of a chance to send me tumbling to my death, I suspect you would have won the game. Shall we continue?”

James flew to the other side of the pitch, visibly sulking. Draco remained where he was, determined to keep his distance. He knew exactly how James felt, and knew it was best to just let James be until he worked out his anger. Lily flew over toward James’ side of the pitch, leaving Draco and Potter to watch the other half. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter dive and then Draco was diving too, catching up, diving right beside him, and then behind the stands. They were neck and neck, both reaching forward, shoulders pressed tightly together. _Thighs_ pressed tightly together. As they both reached out--

Both of their fingers grazed the snitch at the same time, and then the snitch rolled fully into Draco’s gloved hand as Potter’s fingers entwined around the other half of it. Around Draco’s fingers. They slowed their brooms, looking at it. Looking at each other.

“Well?” Lily asked. “What happened?”

“A tie, I think.” Draco said, staring down at the snitch trapped between his and Potter’s clasped hands.

“That’s not possible,” James said, flying over to get a better look.

“Well, neither is your father, but here we are,” Draco said. The snitch fluttered in their grip. Potter tightened his fingers around Malfoy’s.

“One of you had to have touched it first.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Potter’s thumb was doing that thing again. Just barely grazing along the edge of Draco’s gloved thumb. Draco pulled back immediately, and the snitch went darting upward and away. 

“Dad was touching it last! That means we win, right?”

“Sure. Fine.” Potter was watching Draco, and Draco was watching him back. Draco cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose I’ll be going. Where do you want the broom, Potter?”

“Oh? Just...down on the green is fine.”

Draco swooped down, landing a little more roughly than he had intended to, but managed to stay on his feet. “Later, Weasel,” Draco called as he tossed the broom on the green beside him.

“Bye Ferret,” Weasley said absently, not looking up from his parchment. 

With one last glance up at Potter, Draco pulled his waistcoat back over his shoulders, not bothering to button it up as he pulled his robe over his arm and began walking hastily back to school grounds. 

As he approached the moat, he saw Albus Sirius sitting with his back against a tree. Draco glanced back toward the Quidditch pitch, where Potter was still flying with young Lily and James. For a moment, Draco considered walking right by him. But something about the boy’s solitude, in contrast to the happy game the rest of his family was sharing on the Quidditch pitch, was so painfully familiar that he couldn’t bring himself to simply walk by. Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntered toward Albus. Albus was wearing his Slytherin robes, and his dark hair was neatly parted to one side. “Not flying?” Draco asked once he was only standing a few feet away. 

“I’m not very good at it,” he shrugged. “I like having two feet on the ground. Besides, Rose is meeting me out here in a minute.” Draco stepped a little closer and saw that Albus was reading a Potions book, but it wasn’t anything Draco had assigned. “May I join you for a moment? I could use a rest.”

Albus shrugged. “I guess.”

Draco sat down next to him, hooking his elbows around his knees. “What are you reading?”

“Advanced Sleeping and Calming Draughts.”

Draco tried not to show how impressed he was by the fact that Albus was reading a potions textbook--for fun--intended for far more advanced students. “Find anything interesting?”

“I think I can make my dad’s Sleeping Draught a little stronger if I only use the dried lavender flowers instead of the whole sprig.”

“You certainly can. But if you do, be sure to add extra lavender flowers roughly equivalent to the mass of what you are losing in stems and leaves. If you don’t try to compensate for the difference, the Flobberworm Mucus won’t react properly, resulting in a weaker Draught.” 

Albus jotted a note in the margin of his book. “I didn’t think of that. Thanks.”

Draco leaned back against the tree, thinking of how he had discovered that trick when trying to intensify his own variety of sleeping potions. He thought of the bottles of them he had left in his rooms--enough to last a week, and then some. It helped him get through the bad nights. The nights when he would dream about the war. It made sense that Potter needed something similar. “You make Sleeping Draught for your dad then?”

“Yeah. I started when I was just a little kid, with Aunt Hermione's help. I thought it was silly that he kept going out to buy them all the time. He’s pretty awful at potions, so he doesn’t even try to make his own.” Draco smiled at that. Some things never changed. Potter had _always_ been bad at potions. “But after Mom died, things got a lot worse. I’ve been working on a stronger version ever since.”

Draco felt like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. He looked over to Potter’s silhouette, zooming around the Quidditch pitch. Ginny Weasley was _dead_?

So when Granger said that Ginny was _gone_ , she meant...

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

And Draco had insulted the pyjamas she had given Potter. The pyjamas he still _wore_.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

When? 

How? 

“May I ask--” 

As if reading his mind, Albus reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled, folded newspaper clipping. Draco took it. In large, sprawling letters across the top were the words: GINEVRA POTTER MURDERED BY DEATH EATER. 

_Merlin_. 

No wonder Potter had stepped down from Head Auror to become a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. How could anyone even _function_ after that, much less attempt to head the entire Auror organization? No wonder James despised Death Eaters as violently as he did. Draco looked at the date. The newspaper was five years old. 

Draco continued reading and discovered that Ginny had met Potter for lunch one afternoon while Potter was at work. A Dark Curse presumably intended for Potter hit his wife instead. Or maybe it _was_ intended for his wife, as a warning for Potter. It wasn’t clear. Either way, Ginny was dead, and they hadn’t caught who did it. Draco stared at the small photo of the suspected Death Eater, but didn’t recognize him. Then he looked at the larger photo of Potter standing in a cafe with a shattered window and toppled tables and chairs. Draco couldn’t actually see Ginny’s body in the photo, but a rivulet of red hair near the bottom of the frame made the photo gruesome enough. And that look on Potter’s face--Draco had seen it before. That look of complete and utter shock. Of undiluted grief. He had seen that look on Potter’s face more times than he wanted to admit. He'd seen it after the astronomy tower. He'd seen it in Malfoy Manor. He'd seen it after the war. Draco watched the photo until Potter buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs.

Draco felt his chest clench. He silently passed the article back to Albus, who tucked it back into his shirt pocket. 

How had Potter endured it all? So much had already been thrust onto his shoulders when they were children. Draco was old enough to see how _much_ had been forced upon both Potter and Draco by their elders. 

How could one person endure so much loss and still remain standing? Still feel _joy_ ? He looked toward the Quidditch pitch, where three distant silhouettes were flying back and forth. There was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the vanquisher of Voldemort. It seemed like Potter could defeat anything in the world except pain. His heart _ached_ for this man. 

And here was Albus, sitting alone beneath a tree, passing a newspaper clipping to Draco about his mother’s death as if it were as normal as passing lecture notes. This family had _strength_. Unbelievable strength.

Draco didn’t really know what to do. An apology didn’t really seem fitting. He could pat Albus comfortingly on the shoulder, but didn’t want it to seem pitying or condescending. Instead, he continued to sit beside Albus in silence, watching the three silhouettes above the Quidditch pitch. Finally, as he moved to stand up, he said, “If you ever want more of a Potions challenge than what you’re getting in class, come see me. I’d be happy to tutor you personally.”

“Really?” Albus looked up, his voice eager. 

“Really. A talent like yours shouldn’t go to waste. In fact, if you want to stay after class tomorrow I will personally show you how to make an advanced Sleeping Draught.”

Albus grinned, and Draco found himself grinning back. 

“Oh and,” Draco added, looking toward the Quidditch pitch. “If you ever change your mind about flying and want a Slytherin to show you how it’s done, I can help with that too. I was the Slytherin seeker for four years running.”

-

Draco arrived a little early for the meeting on Friday and found the usual cliques of chatting colleagues standing outside of the door. Granger and Weasley were already seated inside, talking quietly. 

Draco sat down in his usual seat beside the door. Eventually, everyone else filtered in--everyone except Potter, anyway--and sat down, leaving Potter’s seat and the two seats on either side of Draco as empty as usual. 

“I believe we’re going to get started,” Granger began. She began listing general announcements: an update on House Points and a generous donation given to the school from a former student. 

Where was Potter?

Was Potter purposely avoiding him?

Was Potter alright?

Was he hurt?

Maybe Draco should say something. He could get up, and leave, and go find Potter, and make sure that everything was okay.

Then the door creaked open behind him and Potter crept in. Granger stopped talking, allowing Potter to walk around the entire room to sit in his usual seat across from Draco.

“Sorry I’m late,” Potter said quietly as he pulled out a Muggle notepad and quill. “Lily broke her arm during Quidditch practice.”

“Is she alright?”

Everyone stared at Draco.

Merlin, had that question actually come out of _his_ mouth?

Potter was looking at him, his eyes, so…Potter-ish. He was going to melt. 

“She’s fine,” Potter smiled appreciatively. “Nothing that the Healers couldn’t mend. She’ll be back to normal in a few days.” Potter’s eyes sparkled at him.

“Well if that’s the last of our interruptions, I’d like to continue by--” Granger began.

“But thank you,” Potter said quietly, watching Draco from across the table. Then even more quietly, he added, “Draco.”

Well, that did it.

Now Draco was remembering the way Potter had last whisper-groaned his first name against Draco’s mouth as their cocks rubbed together. He felt himself growing very, very warm as he gazed at Potter. He parted his lips so that he could breathe. He was becoming a bloody mouth-breather, and all he could think about was how it felt to have Potter panting against his mouth. How it would feel to have Potter panting _into_ his mouth. Especially if he could get Potter back into his bed and out of those hideous pyjamas and--

Oh Merlin, he was in a _meeting_. He should not be thinking these things. 

This was not okay.

This was so not okay.

 _Married with children and straight as an arrow_. 

Er. Not married. Not married at all. A widower, in fact. A wretched, heartbroken widower.

_Straight as an arrow. Straight as an..._

Then there was a heat back in Potter’s eyes that suggested he might also be thinking about the incident in Draco’s bed, and Draco watched his eyes go a little glossy. Merlin, he was so bloody gorgeous that Draco couldn’t look away. Oh, the things he wanted to do to Potter, the delicious things he wanted to--

But the room was still too silent.

And he was just, oh, you know, openly eye-fucking Potter. At a faculty meeting. Nothing to see there. He swallowed, ripping his eyes from Potter as he looked nervously at Granger, who was silently looking back and forth between them. “Please, continue,” Draco said, his voice far too high-pitched as he folded his hands on the table.

Granger’s eyebrows pulled together, and she looked down at her notes. “As I was saying--” she droned on.

Potter was still looking at him. Potter was looking at him like he was something to eat.

Bloody hell, Potter was doing this on purpose. He was just trying to make him look bad in front of his colleagues. But if that was really the case, Potter certainly didn’t look much better. 

Draco looked toward Granger, trying to appear very, _very_ serious. He was a professional, after all. He needed this job to continue his research. He felt his mouth twitching against a grin. Potter was _still_ watching him; he could see it from the corner of his eye. And if Potter didn’t stop looking at him like that immediately, Draco feared he might crawl across the table and give his colleagues something to _really_ gossip about. 

Finally, Draco looked straight into Potter’s eyes, and then rolled his eyes purposefully toward Granger. Potter bit back another smile as he looked over at Granger, pressing his glasses back up his nose as he re-adjusted his grip on his quill.

Merlin, this was getting ridiculous. Someone should Obliviate them both immediately.

“Professor Malfoy,” Granger was saying, and he forced himself to pay attention, “has been doing some very brave and brilliant potions work, as you may have seen in the parchment I posted this week. He needs an assistant, however, before he can be allowed to continue. Kindly, Healer Ruby Victoria has volunteered. Thank you, Healer Victoria.”

Draco gave Victoria a grateful nod, and she smiled back. He remembered her from school. She had been a grade beneath him. A Ravenclaw, possibly. When Granger finished, he would talk to Healer Victoria about meeting him in his quarters later that night, if she felt comfortable with that, so he could consume Potion 2.

...If he could survive this meeting without melting first.

-

Draco ate a quick meal and went back to his rooms, where Healer Victoria had kindly agreed to meet him and assist with his experiments. She thought his rooms were a good choice because they were comfortable and in a safe part of the castle near other employees.

Draco sat down and opened his research journal. He had drastically revised his notes beneath Potion 1, giving it a proper name and so forth. He turned to a blank page, wrote the date in neat, slant script, and then: _Potion 2: three drops ingested orally._

Healer Victoria sat in a small wooden chair by the fireplace with her hands politely folded over one knee. She gave a few judgmental glances toward the fountain of vermouth, still bubbling with full strength on the floor beside her.

“Is it alright if I begin?” Draco asked. 

She nodded.

“Is there anything you need me to do first?”

She shook her head. 

“The last potion I took made me a little dizzy at first, so feel free to give the potion a few seconds to take effect before you actually determine it to be causing harm.”

She nodded again.

Draco sat on the floor, took a deep breath, and allowed three clear drops to fall onto his tongue. He waited a few silent minutes for something to take effect.

Ten minutes later, he still didn’t feel much of anything except a happy sort of warmth. He felt quite comfortable. How nice it was, to feel so comfortable in Healer Victoria’s presence. So comfortable, in fact, that he wanted to share his comfort with her. The best way, obviously, was to tell Healer Victoria exactly how he felt about her, so she could feel this calm and comfortable too. “Victoria,” Draco grinned. 

She smiled at him from her wooden chair. 

“You know? If you bought a decent pair of shoes and cleaned your outfit once a week--and I mean _really_ clean with soap, not with those awful cleaning spells you’ve obviously been trying and failing to cast on them--I think you would be taken far more seriously as a professional.” She paled. “Yes, I am really seeing it now. You could even have the potential for St. Mungo's! Especially if you stopped pretending you were better than everyone else all the time.” Draco nodded, smiling. “How lucky I am to have your assistance! And here I always thought you were so repellent when we were in school, partially due to your birth to Muggle parents of course, but then again I _did_ have some misguided ideals about those sorts of things. Just look at us now, getting along! You aren't nearly so repulsive as I once believed you to be! How delightful!” Healer Victoria’s eyes had gone wide and watery. She was standing on her feet, looking pained. 

“Is something wrong?”

Healer Victoria fled from the room. Draco stood and ran after her into the hallway. “Victoria, come back!” he shouted after her. “What’s wrong?” 

Draco sighed and looked toward Potter and Weasley, who were walking by him in the hall, likely returning from dinner. 

“Looking good, Potter,” Draco drawled, eyeing Potter from head to toe. “Evening, Weasel.” 

“Ferret. Was that Ruby?” Weasley asked.

“Yes it was! I fear I've insulted her terribly. She is probably never coming back, which means that I’ve lost my only viable assistant, and seeing as everyone despises me for very credible reasons, I will no longer be able to continue my experiments. My career is absolutely ruined!” Draco said with a smile. A nice, big, warm smile. He felt bloody fantastic. Wasn’t it so pleasant to say all of these things out loud?

“Uhhh…” Weasley murmured.

“I say, Weasley, your hair is looking particularly unfortunate today. But I _did_ appreciate your willingness to help me with the students who conjured predatory frogs in my classroom this week. And even though the thought of you standing half-naked in my bedroom still makes me a little ill, you _are_ quite adorable with Granger in an unexpectedly nauseating sort of way, and you can be quite useful when you want to be, so I suppose you really aren’t so terribly bad.” Draco grinned. He felt so warm and fantastic. Why couldn’t everyone feel like this? Surely, he could share this fantastic warmth by continuing to talk with everyone.

“Are you...er...feeling alright, Draco?” Potter asked.

“Of course!” Draco grinned. “I think I feel better than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Isn’t that something?” Draco grinned even wider and opened his mouth to continue, and then suddenly a voice in his head was screaming at him. It was a tiny voice, but it was screaming so loudly and frantically that Draco thought maybe he should listen. The voice was saying: _Clearly you have just consumed the Fountain of Truth, you fucking idiot, and if you tell Harry Potter any kind of truth, no good can come from it, so retreat back to your room before you say something that will cause Potter to despise you for the rest of his life._ “In fact, I think--” _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ Draco decided it may be best to listen to this voice before he could change his mind. He abruptly turned around and ran into his room, but in his haste he didn’t put enough force behind it, and the door banged back open instead of latching. Potter was walking right into his room behind him. “Did you take another potion? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“You should leave, Potter.”

“I have to ask,” Potter said softly, allowing the door to swing nearly-closed behind him but not letting it latch. “Does the thought of me half-naked in your bedroom make you ill too?”

“Merlin, I can’t stop thinking about it,” Draco blurted. Then he bit down on his lip so hard he thought he might begin bleeding. Potter was giving him that smug smile again, and the potion part of Draco wanted to keep talking. But he could _not_ keep talking. He absolutely _refused_ to keep talking. Draco clenched his fists at his sides and felt himself begin to sweat. He felt like a bottle of champagne under growing pressure, but he was fighting it--Merlin, it was taking every ounce of energy he had to fight it, but it was bordering on physical pain and he didn’t think he could resist it much longer. He could feel himself growing pale as a droplet of sweat eased down the side of his face. His whole body began trembling. 

“Malfoy, are you sure you’re alright?” Potter asked, taking a step into the room. “You don’t look well.”

Draco was grinding his teeth. “Leave. Now.”

Potter’s eyebrow crinkled, and retreated to the door. “If you’re sure--”

Draco could only nod. He was in too much pain. He felt his trembling intensify. Resisting the potion hurt. Merlin, it hurt. He felt like he was being ripped open. He felt like Potter had cast Sectumsempra on him all over again, like Voldemort had cast a Crucio. He dug his toes into the floor and gasped. He fell back onto his bed with a pained cry, gripping the blankets into tight fists.

“Draco!” Potter ran into the room and fell to his knees at Draco’s bedside, pressing a warm hand to Draco’s writhing chest in an attempt to still him on the bed so he wouldn’t convulse _off_ of it. Despite everything, Potter was _touching_ him again. He felt like he was being ripped apart, and yet Potter’s hand felt like the anchor keeping him together. “I’m calling a Healer.”

“No!” Draco yelled, slapping a hand toward his chest and wrapping it around the fabric at Potter’s wrist. Oh Merlin. He was going to say it. He was going to say something terrible. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say yet, exactly, but he knew he wouldn’t like it, and he certainly didn’t want Potter to hear it. Because some awful part of him _liked_ having Potter kneeling beside him in his bedroom and pressing his hand against his chest with concerned eyes as though he actually _cared_. Part of him actually _liked_ having Potter eyeing him in the Faculty Room, and falling into his bed from magical doors in the ceiling, and saying ambiguously flirtatious things. But when he had blurted truths to Victoria and Weasley, they had been mostly hurtful. Oh, and there were so many, many, many hurtful things he could say to Potter. Scrolls of hurtful things. Endless hurtful things that he had been composing his entire life. And once he surrendered to the potion, once he started saying those hurtful things, he wasn’t certain he would be able to stop. And he didn’t want Potter to hear any of it. Because even Harry Potter wasn’t _that_ forgiving. 

But he couldn’t fight it anymore. He felt like a tidal wave surging into shore. Draco reached above his head with both hands, grabbed a pillow, and pressed it tightly to his face with all the strength of his forearms until he couldn’t breathe. Finally, he stared apologetically directly into Potter’s eyes and allowed the building tension to release as he screamed into his pillow. “I like you so much I can’t think straight,” Draco began, lifting the pillow to take a breath before pressing it back against his face, “and I can’t actually tell you because you would leave me. You would leave me because I’m worthless and I’ve done nothing but push you away my whole life, and if you ever left me I think it would destroy me, Potter.” He took another breath. “I don’t know how to do this. My family worshipped the Dark Lord for fuck’s sake, I don’t know how to _do_ this." Another breath. "I can live with your hate. You can hate me all you want because hate is something I understand--hate is personal and intimate and it coils inside of you somewhere deep and never leaves." Breath. "So hate me, Potter. Hate me forever and always. But don’t you dare love me. If you love me and leave me, Harry Potter, I will fucking _break_!”

Draco lifted the pillow and gasped as he looked at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath and swallow the growing tightness in his throat. “Oh Morgana,” he whispered to himself. His whole body went slack, and he timidly met Potter’s eyes. Potter’s beautiful, kind eyes. 

Was that it then? 

Was that the truth? 

Merlin’s left tit, was that the actual fucking _truth_? 

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he certainly hadn’t expected _that_. Draco began shaking again, but this time it wasn’t because he was resisting the potion. It was because Potter was looking at him in _such_ a way. A compassionate, tender way. And Potter’s cheeks went a little pink, and his hand pressed a little more tightly against Draco’s chest, and his lips opened a little, and Draco suddenly feared that Potter had understood everything Draco had just said. _Fuck, fuck, fuck this wasn’t happening._ Had the pillow not been thick enough? Had it not muffled his voice enough? If Potter had heard any word of what he had just said, he was fairly certain he was going to die. DIE. As his panic began to build into fear, Potter scrunched his nose, shook his head, and cleared his throat. “Er…sorry Malfoy, what was that?” 

Draco sighed with relief. Oh thank Merlin. Thank Merlin, and Morgana, and Salazar’s big sweaty bollocks. “The truth, I guess.” Draco could practically feel his eyes going all mushy and sparkly as they looked into Potter’s eyes. He felt his hand tightening around Potter’s wrist. “I took the second potion, but I’m fine, and I really, really, _really_ need for you to leave now, Potter.” The pain was beginning to slowly build again, and he knew he had to get Potter out of his room. In fact, no one was allowed in his room for the rest of the weekend. He couldn’t take that risk. Before he could even catch himself, he was blurting words again. “I just found out about your wife, and I’m so sorry, Potter. About everything. About her, and the pyjamas, and I have so much respect for how you’ve handled it, because I’d have Obliviated myself if I--” Draco smushed the pillow back over his mouth.

“Draco…” 

“Oi!” Weasley called from the door. “You coming back out, mate?”

“In a minute!” Potter called, not taking his eyes off of Draco. Potter’s hand was still pressed warmly to his chest, and Potter’s thumb was doing that rubbing thing again. Draco felt like he had swallowed a snitch. Potter blinked at him, his eyes dripping with affection and concern. Draco couldn’t breathe. “I should really call a Healer.”

Draco set the pillow aside. “No.”

“Draco, I--” 

“Potter,” Draco whispered, wrapping his other hand around the fabric at Potter’s wrist, squeezing his fingers tightly against Potter’s shirt as he felt the pressure building up again. He looked Potter straight in the eyes, hoping his own eyes looked as desperate as he felt. “ _Please_.” He was begging for Potter to leave. _Begging._ How could Potter not see that?

Potter did see that. Thank Merlin. Potter slowly lifted his hand from Malfoy’s chest, pulled his wrist out of Malfoy’s grip, and got to his feet. “Can I at least send a house elf to keep an eye on you?”

Draco nodded. _Fine_. Anything to get Potter out. 

“Good. I’ll send one along.”

Potter took a step to leave, and then turned back around. _Why wouldn’t he just leave already?_ “Tomorrow night around seven o’clock, Ron, Hermione, and I are going for a drink at the Hog’s Head--less likely to run into students there, you know--I’d really like it if you joined us. Just so I can see that you’re alright after tonight. You can tell us about the potion.” Draco nodded again and gripped the pillow to his face. “And Malfoy.” Draco glared up at him, half of his face obscured by silk and fluff. “Next weekend I’ll volunteer. I’ll help you finish your potions experiments, if you’ll have me.”

Draco smiled gleefully into his pillow, relieved that Potter couldn’t see his face. Draco nodded a final time. “Saved me again, Potter,” he said into his pillow after Potter left. 

And then he looked up at the emerald snake coiled above his fireplace and told it _exactly_ how he felt about it. It was fine. They were mostly compliments. 


	6. Chapter 6

Draco walked into Hogsmeade, not quite sure why he had agreed to this. Oh. To get Harry Potter out of his bedroom last night. Because he wasn’t thinking properly. That’s why. He walked up to the Hog’s Head, still the seediest pub of all time, and stared at the blood oozing from the hog into the surrounding cloth. Of course! Let’s go here. It will be a grand old time. Draco looked down at his outfit. He was wearing a lavender button-up shirt with a pair of tan trousers and his dark green basilisk-skin shoes. His hair was pulled into a knot at the back of his head, although a few wild strands of shorter hair always managed to escape. His old research colleagues had often asked him to join them at a local pub every now and then, but this was the first time Potter had asked him anywhere. It almost felt like a date, and he wanted to look decent.

_Unmarried with children and mostly straight-ish as an arrow._

No. It was definitely _not_ a date. 

His eyes took very little time to adjust to the Hog’s Head dark interior.

“Malfoy!” Potter called from the bar, already nearing the bottom of his pint. Weasley sat on a stool at Potter’s right, but Granger was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Granger?” Draco asked as he approached.

“In the Healing wing with some kind of flu,” Weasley said a little sadly.

“That’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her about the new potion.”

“It’s over then?” Potter asked. “You’re alright?”

"Yes, Potter," Draco rolled his eyes with a smile, "Don't I look it?" Draco finally looked Potter in the eyes for the first time since he'd arrived and his stomach clenched. Potter was wearing well-fitted navy jeans and a white long-sleeved jersey knit that fit him more closely than Draco would have liked. He could see the lines of muscle beneath the shirt at Potter’s arms, the way it followed his waist. Draco looked instead at Potter’s neckline, where he could see a wide V of skin, Potter’s collarbone, and a thin tuft of dark chest hair. Nope. That wasn’t helping either.

"No!" Potter said in a rush. "Er. I mean. You look great. It's just..." He cleared his throat awkwardly. “How did it go?”

“Honestly, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Draco sat at Potter’s left and ordered a pint, listening to Potter and Weasley discuss Quidditch. “Now wait a minute, Weasley,” Draco cut in, “How is Grunkle doing better than Weberton this season? Weberton _clearly_ has caught more snitches.”

“Not if you count the game in which he _clearly_ didn’t, but the refs made a terrible call.”

As the night wore on, Draco found that he actually enjoyed banter with Weasley. He enjoyed sitting at a bar next to Potter, their elbows accidentally brushing sometimes beneath the fabric of their shirts. He enjoyed the way Potter would look back at him if he hadn’t said anything in a while, as if making sure he was still there.

Like right now. 

Draco lifted half of his mouth into a smile. He and Potter _had_ been smiling at each other an awful lot lately. It was downright strange. 

"Potter," Draco said as Weasley leaned forward to investigate his options for another pint.

"Hmm?" Potter hummed with his lips still attached to his pint glass.

"I've been wondering something. About that first night you came back to the Great Hall?" The truth was, Draco had been wondering a _lot_ of things about that first night. Like whether or not he'd imagined that he and Potter had practically been seducing each other with their eyes.

Potter swallowed a little too quickly and coughed before bumping his fist against his chest a couple of times. "Yes?" He choked, and Draco was genuinely tempted to _ask_ about the eye-seduction.

"Granger said you had been away on business?" Draco wasn't about to outright ask why Potter had been a disheveled mess, because that implied that he had been _looking,_ and that risked looping back to the topic of eye-seduction.

"Oh!" Potter sounded almost relieved. "I um... I help the Aurors sometimes. _Technically_ I'm still active in Auror records, even though I stepped down. Neville calls me in when he has a lead on...well." Potter shrugged. "Cases. You know."

" _The_ case," Weasley clarified, settling back on his stool and joining the conversation. "I think we'll all sleep better when the bastards are brought to justice."

Draco assumed that they were discussing the case of Ginny Weasley's death, but also didn't want to pry or make it seem like he was trying to stir up bad memories when they weren't offered willingly. This _was_ supposed to be a casual night at the pub, after all. "Longbottom's an Auror?" he asked instead.

"He's a bloody fantastic Auror," Ron said.

"Yeah," Harry said. "He was my partner for a while. One of the best. Who'd have thought, hmm?"

"Quite," Draco said, raising his eyebrows as he angled his glass into one hand. He lifted his pint and took a sip.

All of a sudden, a woman he had never seen before in his life walked right up to Potter and leaned her head over his left shoulder. 

“Hey,” she whispered, sliding her fingers alluringly along Potter’s shoulders in a way that made Draco want to slap her away. “How about you come back to my place tonight? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” She slid a piece of paper onto the bar and turned, swaying her hips as she walked back toward the corner of the room. Draco glanced down and saw that she had slid him Apparition coordinates. 

“Did she just come on to you, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Yep.”

“ _Finally_! Bartender!” Ron yelled. “Can we get three shots of firewhiskey please?”

“She’s...er…lovely?” Draco said, actively trying to not sound as predatorily jealous as he suddenly felt. “You should...Apparate, or whatever it is that you do,” he said, trying to sound supportive even though the thought of it soured his stomach.

Potter snorted into his pint. “Malfoy. She only wants me for my fame. I’ve told you. To most people I am a conquest. They only see my scar, not _me._ Which is why I don’t go home with people I meet in pubs.”

Draco wanted to laugh. As they had established, he had the complete opposite problem. No one wanted to take him home because they only saw his infamy. They only saw his Mark. No one loved Draco Malfoy, because no one could love a Death Eater. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t one anymore.

“The one time Harry did take someone home from the pub, it turned out to be a Death Eater trying to lure Harry to his death! Ha!” Weasley laughed, although Draco didn’t see how he could find it very funny.

Potter shot Weasley a look. 

“I mean...sorry, Harry.” Weasley suddenly became very interested in his pint glass.

“She didn’t hurt you though?” Draco almost hated himself for asking, but he had to know. He couldn’t stand the thought of Potter going home with anyone who wanted to hurt him. He couldn’t stand the thought of Potter in pain, especially when all Potter had probably wanted that night was to be held. And Draco had often found himself lonely enough to know exactly what that felt like.

Potter glanced at Draco and then down into his pint glass. “No," he said softly. "He tried, but I immobilized him and brought him down to my office. It was a few days before I quit the Aurors.”

He? _He?_ The only person Potter had ever tried to bring home from a pub was a male Death Eater? Maybe Potter wasn’t even remotely as straight-ish as he thought. He was a beautiful, queer blur, and Draco had now completely lost the power of his defensive chant. Married? Not anymore. With Children? Yes, but they weren’t so bad; he was even growing fond of them. Straight as an arrow? Most definitely not. 

Well, fuck. 

And this had happened before he quit the Aurors? So this had happened when he was _grieving_ , and he was probably just trying to feel anything else. He was probably just trying to find comfort in the arms of a stranger. Instead, he had encountered someone trying to kill him. Draco couldn’t help himself. He purposely leaned forward until his elbow was pressed firmly against Potter’s. 

“I’m telling you, you really need to lose this thing for blondes, mate. Next thing you know, you’ll be going home with _Malfoy_ , here.”

Potter flushed and Draco stared into his glass, but they didn’t move their elbows. Potter had tried going home with a _blonde_ male Death Eater? Bloody hell. For the first time in his life, Draco wished he would have picked up a British newspaper while he'd been gone. He wished he would have come _back_. If Potter had been picking up blonde male Death Eaters, then maybe...

“Firewhiskey!” Weasley exclaimed as the bartender slid three shots across the bar. Weasley pushed one down to Draco and set one in front of Potter. “Cheers, mates.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure why they were doing shots, but he gulped back the firewhiskey anyway, and it warmed him from the inside.

A few minutes later, while Weasley was in the loo and Draco had walked across the room to glance at a note on the wall about someone selling potions ingredients, a man sauntered across the pub toward Potter. Draco instantly began walking back toward the bar, Death Eaters still fresh on his mind. The man bent toward Potter’s ear, pressing a hand firmly on Potter’s opposite shoulder, and began whispering. Draco reached Potter’s side, crossed his arms, and cleared his throat loudly. The man stood upright, gave Draco a bit of a scowl, and then walked away. Potter’s cheeks were bright pink, and his knuckles went white against his glass as he shifted on his stool. The man walked straight out of the bar, letting the doors slam behind him.

“What’d that one say?” Draco asked.

“Uh--”Potter cleared his throat. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Oh, now I really, really do.”

Lucky for Potter, Weasley plopped down beside them. “Alright, what’d I miss? How many is that tonight?”

“One more,” Potter said.

“Yes! Bartender! Three firewhiskeys please! I so love the fact that we can’t take you _anywhere_ , mate.” Weasley said. When the bartender returned, Weasley slid another shot toward Draco and set one in front of Potter. “Cheers,” he said, lifting one of the shot glasses. 

“So… _why_ are we doing shots?” Draco asked, looking at his second shot of firewhiskey. He was already feeling tipsy after one firewhiskey and a pint.

“You’re such a Slytherin, Malfoy, honestly.” Weasley rolled his eyes. “Does there have to be a reason for everything?”

“You clearly have a reason behind this.”

“I don’t even remember who started it, if it was Neville or Ginny or--” 

“I’m pretty sure it was you, Ron,” Potter said.

“Anyway. So many people would come up to Harry when we went out to the pub that we decided to turn it into something of a game. After that, it became an amusing little ritual. Every time someone hits on Harry at the pub, everyone does a shot. Amusing for us, lightens an awkward situation for Harry, a win-win for everyone. Now cheers.”

Draco and Potter lifted their shotglasses to clink against Weasley’s and they all swallowed the shot.

After another couple of hours, they were all quite drunk--or at least Draco was--and the crowd had begun clearing out. There were only a few old men left in the corner.

“Aw, I was hoping to get at least a nice even three,” Weasley said. “It has been a shit week, after all. I think you’re losing your touch, Harry.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said flatly.

“No, really though!" Ron leaned forward to look down the bar at Malfoy, but nearly fell off his stool. "Malfoy, you wouldn’t believe it. I remember the days when so many strangers would try to flirt with Harry that we would have to cast sobering charms so as to not die of alcohol poisoning by the end of the night.”

Draco fiddled with one of his empty glasses. “Well by all means, Weasley, if you would like to flirt with Potter, I would happily join you for another shot as soon as I finish scratching out my eyeballs.”

“Hey, there’s an idea,” Weasley scrunched his nose. “Why don't you do it, Malfoy? Hell, you're practically Harry's type," Weasley laughed. "Just get close enough to glare evilly at him like usual, except say ‘’ello, there,’ toss a light punch, and be done with it.”

“You have got to be joking,” Draco drawled, referring as much to Weasley's idea of flirting as he was the implication that _he_ should be the one to flirt with Potter at the pub. In public. Where people could see. Still, he was suddenly nervous and excited all at once.

“ _Orrrrr_ ,” Potter intervened, his knuckles tightening a little around his pint, “neither of you can flirt with me and we can take another shot just because we feel like it, like normal people. Win, win. No one has to go blind.”

“Harry! The game will be _ruined_ if we just ‘ _take shots because we feel like it_.’ Honestly, mate.” Weasley sighed sadly, and then perked up. “Let’s draw straws, Malfoy.”

“I would rather not vomit onto my shoes this evening, but thank you for offering.”

“Fine then,” Weasley said, clearly disappointed. “I’ll go see if one of them is willing to do it,” Weasley said, nodding toward the old men in the corner.

“Straws,” Potter squeaked as if his life depended on it. “This is unbelievably stupid, Ron, and your game is stupid, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but please draw the bloody straws. Or play Rock, Paper, Scissors, or whatever it is you want to do. I’m going to the loo. If you find me in bloody bits it’s because I tried to disapparate while intoxicated. Fucking hell.” Potter stormed off.

“What is Rock, Paper, Scissors?” Draco asked.

“A Muggle version of Stone, Cloak, Wand. Come on.”

Weasley gave Draco a brief tutorial, and then they counted to three and revealed their choices. “Ha!” Draco said. “I win! Wand beats rock! Take that, Weasley. I’ll be hiding in the corner, shielding my eyes from your ghastly display.”

“Now wait just a blimey minute! First: you should have two fingers out because those are scissors, but nevermind. Second: rock beats scissors. I win.”

“What! That’s cheating! Wand should beat everything. I demand a rematch under the pretense of not properly understanding...er...whatever you call them.”

“Scissors?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry mate,” Weasley grinned, patting him on the back. “I’ll order the shots,” Weasley said. 

“Oh no you don’t. Rematch.” 

Weasley rolled his eyes. “But I already won.”

Draco’s voice went cold. “ _Now_.”

“Fine! _Merlin,_ you can be a creepy fucker when you want to be. One. Two. Three.”

“Ha! I win!” Draco exclaimed, staring down at his fist and Weasley’s two fingers, which were...well they were pointing upward in a vulgar salute, weren’t they? No matter. “I win, right?”

“Yes, yes, you win,” Weasley sighed, rolling his eyes. Draco looked up to see Potter returning from the loo, looking a little flustered. 

Weasley crossed the room and met Potter in the wide space between the loo and the bar. “Nice shirt, mate,” Weasley said, extending his arm straight as a board and slapping Harry twice on the top of the shoulder. 

No.

No. 

_No._

“Er...thanks?” Potter shrugged.

Draco was grinding his teeth. Suddenly he realized that this wasn’t winning at all. Winning was what would have happened if he had accepted the fact that he had lost in the first place. Now Weasley was touching Potter. Slapping him on the back like they had just finished a bracing game of Quidditch or something equally ridiculous.

And it was all wrong.

He was doing it all _wrong_.

Or rather, it was right, because if Weasley _actually_ attempted to flirt with Potter, Draco realized he may actually have to kill him. You know. For Granger’s honor. 

But it was still all _wrong._

“Back off, Weasley, before you hurt someone,” Draco said, hauling Weasley away from Potter and pushing him back down the bar. “Merlin, you honestly call that _flirting_? It’s a miracle you ever reproduced,” Draco said, lowering his voice. “Now go over there,” he pointed toward the bartender, who was cleaning a glass, “and order the damned shots. I concede to your original victory.”

Draco turned around to see that Potter had gotten distracted by a poster on the wall, and was now walking back toward the bar, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired, the charming, brainless twit. It was probably just the alcohol imitating the feeling of anticipation and desire in his gut. And his mind was only pretending that Potter was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen in his fucking life, in preparation for what he was about to do. His stomach clenched as he watched Harry approach, pushing a wild lock of dark hair out of his eyes. 

_Unmarried with children and most certainly queer._

Oh this was useless. He really needed a new defense chant.

_Potter stinks._

But he smelled rather delightful, actually. 

_I despise Potter_.

Right. Absolutely despised him.

“Potter!” he called a little edgily. Potter stopped a few feet away from the bar, looking questioningly at Draco. Draco closed the gap between them, flattened both of his palms against Potter’s chest, and _pushed_. Potter stumbled backward and gasped as they fell against the bar, the wood jutting into Potter’s back. Draco was suddenly filled with a desire to make Potter gasp _again_. He wanted Potter breathless and gasping against his _mouth_.

“Oh. Er--I guess you drew the short straw then?” Potter glanced nervously sideways. Draco followed Potter’s gaze to see Weasley, who was waiting for their shots and grinning like this was the funniest fucking thing he had ever seen in his life. 

“Well go on, then, Malfoy!” Weasley said, laughing like a donkey.

But Draco had already lifted his right hand to Potter’s left jaw and was stroking his knuckles along his jawline down to his chin, forcing Potter’s gaze back to him. How many times had he dreamed of doing that? Just the slightest touch of Potter’s face felt... _golden_. Clearly he'd had too much to drink.

Potter blinked. “Draco, you really don’t have to do this if you don’t—mmm"

Draco pressed his thumb to Potter’s lips. Merlin, the feeling of Potter’s _mouth_. Despite the stubble already growing around his lips, he was surprisingly soft and incredibly warm. Potter’s eyes were so close and attentive and so beautifully _green_. He could feel Potter’s nervous breath on his thumb, chest rising and falling against his hand. Draco wanted this. How could he have thought for an instant he hadn’t wanted this? He had wanted this for a fucking lifetime. There was no possible way that some muscled stranger who didn’t even know the first thing about Potter was going to be the last person whispering provocative things into his ear and making him flush tonight. Absolutely not. If he had his way, the muscled stranger would be completely forgotten, replaced only with thoughts of Draco Malfoy. 

Draco subtly traced his fingers along the skin of Potter's chest at the point of the V in his shirt. Touching Potter offered its own kind of high, and his drunkenness made him bold. He dragged the thumb of his other hand down Harry's chin and onto his shoulder. He leaned forward until the outside of Potter’s left thigh grazed the inside of Draco’s right. Draco brushed his lips ever so slightly against Potter’s earlobe. “Harry Potter,” he whispered as seductively as he felt, his lips moving lightly against Potter’s ear. He kept his voice quiet enough so that only Potter could hear. “If you go home with anyone tonight, it had better be _me_.” He traced the fingertips of his right hand up Potter’s neck, thrilled to see gooseflesh trailing his touch, and wove them forcefully into that mess of dark hair, pulling Potter’s head back a little before pushing him close again. He heard Potter’s breath quiver, and felt Potter’s right hand--the hand that Weasley couldn’t see--grip Draco’s waist. Potter’s reaction delighted him, and Draco closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of Potter’s willing hand against him. “And when we get back to the castle,” Draco licked his lips, “you are going to sneak to my room. Because,” Draco moved his head so Weasley couldn’t see what he was doing, and ran his tongue along the length of Potter’s ear. He sucked Potter’s earlobe into his mouth, rolling it gently between his lips. Merlin _fuck_ , he even _tasted_ golden. “I want you back in my _bed_ , Potter.” Potter whimpered softly into Draco’s left ear, and his right hand tightened on Draco’s waist. “There are some things I have been _dreaming_ of doing to you for a long,” Draco subtly leaned forward further, pressing his growing erection against Potter’s hip. “ _Long_ time.” Potter pressed his cheekbone against Malfoy’s jaw and breathed a short little exhale, as if all of the breath was being squeezed from his lungs, and then inhaled deeply. Draco gently nipped Potter’s earlobe and leaned back, taking in the hazy look in Potter’s eyes, the slight part of his mouth. Draco found that he wanted to kiss that mouth. He _desperately_ wanted to kiss that mouth. And Potter, his eyes still dark and glossy and undoubtedly staring at Draco’s lips, tilted his head up toward him, his eyes almost pleading. Although it may have started as a game, Potter's reaction was most certainly not pretend. The room began to spin, although Draco wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or the fact that he had Potter so close, where he _belonged_ , finally panting against Draco’s mouth.

Draco swallowed and took a large step backward before he could do anything stupid, and Potter’s hand quickly lifted from his waist and was rustling in his own hair. “How was that, Weasel?” Draco looked over at Weasley, whose smile had gone a little crooked, and his whole head was craned sideways so that he looked like a confused dog.

“Right. Well,” Weasley emptied one of the shot glasses and looked back and forth between Draco and Potter. Then Weasley downed the remains of his pint, and slammed it on the bar. “Ten points for Slytherin.”

Later that night, the world spiraling with firewhiskey, Draco kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt, and was about to remove his trousers when he could have sworn that he heard movement outside of his door. If that group of delinquents attempted to conjure predatory frogs in his bedroom this time, they had another thing coming. There was a light knock. Delinquents of the most deviant sort. Trying to get him to open the door first, and _then_ conjure the frogs right in his bedroom. Draco took a step, but lost his balance and stumbled against his desk. “Go jump in the lake!” he yelled toward the door. But he still heard _fidgeting_. Fidgeting, toe-scuffing students trying to conjure predatory fucking frogs in his fucking bedroom. Bastards, the lot of them. Draco stumbled across the room and practically ripped the door off of its hinges with his wand at the ready, then wobbled until he regained his balance. “I said--!” he yelled angrily into the dark hallway. He blinked. He looked left and right down the hallway and saw no one. But he could have sworn he heard a swishing of robes, followed by footsteps hastening away from his room and down the hall. “And stay out!” he yelled and returned to his room, mumbling something so incoherent that even _he_ wasn't entirely sure what his inebriated brain was trying to say. Draco kicked the door closed and collapsed, completely pissed, into his silky bed.


	7. Chapter 7

It was late Tuesday night. Draco didn't remember much about what had happened at the pub that weekend, but he did remember the golden taste of Harry Potter's earlobe in his mouth. Or at least he thought he did. It didn't seem rationally possible. He was starting to wonder if the whole thing had been a glorious dream, because whenever Draco tried to get Potter's attention, Potter's cheeks would flush and he would avoid direct eye contact. It was beginning to make Draco wonder if they had ever evolved out of adolescence.

Draco still walked around the battlements like usual, keeping watch while Potter walked along the edge of the Forbidden Forest or along the lake or around the castle moat. The nights were getting colder, but Draco didn’t mind. He liked the cold air and if it ever became too much, he cast some warming charms. Draco folded his hands behind his back, watching Potter walking near the Quidditch pitch. He noted how well he knew the mannerisms of Potter’s gait even from so far away. He was so focused on Potter, he was more than a little surprised when he collided with someone.

“Watch where you’re going, Death Eater,” James spat at him.

“Mr. Potter, what an unpleasant surprise. That's five points from Gryffindor for a student breaking curfew.”

James violently shook his head. “I can’t believe my dad wants me to be nice to an evil bastard like you.”

Potter wanted his son to be _nice_ to him? That was almost flattering. Then again, if James _actually_ started behaving, Draco would lose all of his opportunities to remove points from Gryffindor. Where was the fun in that? “Yes, well, you shouldn’t listen to everything your father says. I never do.”

James eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing up here anyway?”

Draco shrugged and nodded toward the distant shape of Potter on the grounds. 

“Does he know you’re up here?” James asked.

“Does he know _you’re_ up here?”

James looked away defiantly, folding his arms over his chest. His answer was obviously _no_ , which meant that Potter was completely oblivious that two people were watching him from the battlements.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping or studying or something?”

“Shouldn’t you be plotting in your evil lair?” 

“This _is_ my evil lair.” Draco grinned.

James just rolled his eyes. “Why are you even watching him anyway?”

Draco was silent for a long while, studying Potter as he walked in the cool night air below. He supposed he could offer another sarcastic remark, but Draco decided to go with honesty this time. “To protect him, I suppose. Your father has a knack for getting into trouble.” There hadn’t been any other sign of a Dark Mark in the sky, but Draco still wanted to be on guard. Knowing Potter, he’d probably run off alone without even informing anyone else what he was doing.

 _"Protect_ him? Why, so you can kill him yourself?”

And back to sarcasm. “Yes, Mr. Potter, so I can kill him myself.” 

“Well, you’re rubbish then, aren’t you? You could have killed him in the woods. Not even a proper Death Eater.”

“I suppose that’s why they kicked me out.” Draco said, rocking playfully on his toes.

James scoffed and walked away. They avoided each other for the better part of fifteen minutes, pacing on their respective portions of the battlements. Eventually, Draco settled in one place, casting a warming charm and leaning against the cold stone. Potter always claimed he was on patrol on nights like these, but he also walked with such thoughtful, determined purpose that Draco often wondered if there was more to it. He walked like a man with the world on his mind.

Each stretch of James' pacing grew closer and closer to where Draco was positioned, until Draco wondered if James was intending to shove him over the battlements. Finally, James stopped near Draco, stomping a foot as if he wasn't happy about his own decision. “What was it like? The war? Dad never talks about it. _No one_ ever talks about it, and I really want to know.”

Draco looked up. The sky was clear, and his namesake constellation was curling itself widely across the sky. “It was war. Your dad went through a lot.”

‘Yeah, but he won’t _tell_ me anything, and I want to know. I want to know _his_ stories, not what the newspapers say.”

Draco sighed and dropped his gaze, watching Potter’s shadow move below them. “The only person who can tell you your father’s stories is your father.” James groaned and was about ready to stomp away again, before Draco said, “But I can tell you what I know.” And so Draco did. Draco told him about the years leading up to the war, Potter's claims that Voldemort was back, about what happened at the astronomy tower, what happened at Malfoy Manor, and all about the Elder Wand. They were actually sitting up on the battlements long after Potter had gone inside, but James was listening without complaint, and Draco realized he had never really _talked_ about the war before, not quite like this. It offered a sort of relief, like the war was a distant tale in a storybook. Like the war couldn't hurt them anymore. He felt a fraction of its weight lifting off of his chest. “If you speak a word of this to your father--”

James shrugged. “I’ll say I read it in the newspapers. Can I see it?” James asked, nodding toward Draco’s forearm. 

“Absolutely not.”

James huffed. 

“You know,” Draco began, trying to veer the subject away from his Dark Mark, “I haven’t told anyone about the fact that, had you actually _been_ to bed that night, the failed antidote potion wouldn’t have caught fire on your pillow. I believe I at least deserve an explanation.”

“I--” James pouted and looked across the lawn, as though Potter were still out there, patrolling the grounds.

“You were here, weren’t you? Watching him.”

“None of your business.”

“Why don’t you want him to know?”

“Yeah, well, why don’t _you_ want him to know?”

There was a long silence, and Draco refused to be the one to break it first.

“He’d freak out, okay?” James said. “He’s always freaking out. Afraid I’m going to fall and kill myself or something.”

“Well,” Draco pushed himself to his feet. “At least tonight you had adult supervision, and I’m not about to let you fall over the battlements.”

“Because you want to kill me yourself, I suppose?” James asked, but his tone wasn’t as harsh this time. It almost sounded like he, too, had finally discovered sarcasm.

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Draco said, with equal teasing in his voice, “because I want to kill you myself.”

-

The week went by quickly. Still, Draco was beginning to wonder if Potter was purposely avoiding him. Potter stumbled into the faculty meeting late, didn’t look Draco’s way _once_ , said nothing about helping with Draco’s potions experiments that night like he had promised, and hurriedly shuffled off without a word as soon as the meeting was over. He supposed he would just need to find someone else for help with his potions work, if there was anyone else left who was willing to volunteer.

Back in his rooms that evening, Draco kept trying to remember details about the night at the Hog's Head, wondering if he'd done something to scare Potter off. He'd had way more to drink than he was used to, and the whole night still felt blurry no matter how many times he tried to remember it. ...Except the very dreamy memory of Potter’s ear in his mouth. And gold. There was still something about gold. Anyway, maybe he had misinterpreted Potter’s body language and crossed a line. Certainly when Potter had suggested that they be _not enemies_ he hadn’t imagined that it meant _flirting_ instead of fighting.

It was a mess, all of it.

It was a giant, confusing mess.

Draco didn’t even know _what_ he felt anymore, and he had no pressing desire to find out. He just knew that when he thought of Potter pressed against him, his breath quivering in his ear, he couldn’t think. He just _wanted_. 

He wanted to _devour_ Harry Potter. 

And it was terrifying.

Maybe it would be better if Potter continued to stay away, and then he could...well, he would finish his potions work secretly, and then leave Hogwarts behind forever.

Then another voice in his head kept insisting that wasn’t what he wanted at all. 

There was a timid knock on his door, and Draco went to open it. Potter was standing sheepishly in the hall, looking as if he might flee at any moment.

“Yes?” Draco asked firmly, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I didn't know if you still wanted to... Er..." Potter cleared his throat. "Do you still need help with your potions? I mean. I can leave. If you want.”

Draco opened the door wider and Potter walked in, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

“Potter, I’m sorry for…” What did he intend to say, exactly? For wanting to ravish you? For wanting to snog you senseless? That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it? “If you…”

“Right! Ready for the next one, then?”

Fine. If Potter was going to ignore it, then so was he. Draco began to walk to his potions desk, but Potter got there first.

“Sit.” Potter commanded, finally sounding more sure of himself.

Draco sat down on the edge of his bed without a single protest. What was the world coming to? He was actually listening to Harry Potter. “Are you sure you want to... I mean, I can prepare everything.”

“After seeing how bad things got the last time, I think I’d feel more comfortable if you were sitting down. How much do you usually take?”

“Three drops.”

“You're just moving on to the next potion then?”

“Yes. Bring me my research journal, won’t you?” Draco closed his eyes. He hated this. He hated that Potter was being so… _normal_? He, on the other hand, felt like he was going mad. He took a stabilizing breath. He was working. He had to keep his wits about him.

“Here.” Draco opened his eyes. Potter was holding out his research journal in one hand and the dropper in the other. Draco balanced the journal on his knee, hastily scribbled the date and _Potion 5. Three drops ingested orally._ Then he took the dropper and allowed three drops to fall onto his tongue. Draco relaxed onto his mountain of pillows as Potter took his journal and the potion back to his desk. So far the potion gave him a dizzyingly elated sort of feeling, but with Potter nearby that might not have been the potion at all. 

“Potion Five?” Potter asked, frowning down at Draco's research journal. “But you said to give you the next one. The next one is Potion Four.”

Draco abruptly sat upright. “Potter, please say you did _not_ just give me Potion Four.”

“Erm…” Potter looked down at Draco’s desk and then leaned his head back, as if struggling to focus. He lifted his head dazedly, looking back at Draco with a distant, disoriented expression on his face. 

“Potter?” Draco asked nervously, scooting forward until his legs were dangling over the edge of the bed. “What potion--?” Potter took a few staggering steps toward him. “ _Potter_?” Draco stood, anxiety swirling through his gut. “Are you alright?” Potter was crossing the room, moving straight toward Draco as if he had no control of his own two feet. He was close. Closer. Too close. Far too close. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Draco gently pressed a hand against Potter’s chest, trying to steady him, trying to keep him in place. Potter was only inches from Draco’s face, and Draco intended to keep him at a distance. “Say something.” But then Potter leaned forward and kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth. It was short and simple and soft and sweet, but Draco dropped his hand and stepped back until his calves were pressed against the edge of the bed, feeling completely undone. Unnerved. Unfastened. Unmade.

Potter’s eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, as if regaining focus and seeing Draco for the first time. Potter lifted the tips of his fingers to his own lips. Draco could imagine what Potter felt, because Draco could feel it too: the lingering heat tingling at the corner of his mouth, as if he had just picked up the perfect wand in Ollivander's shop. The kiss, brief as it had been, was resonating with him in a way that only a perfect wand could, sending a magical warmth through his body and shooting invisible sparks throughout the room. Maybe that golden feeling last night _hadn’t_ entirely been the alcohol after all. Well, Draco was doomed. There would be no going back from this. With one stupid, half-arsed kiss, Potter had ruined him for the rest of his life. Ruined him for anyone else. Brainless twit.

Potter looked at Draco’s mouth incredulously and stepped closer, his hands coming to either side of Draco’s collar and gripping it tight. “Potter,” Draco warned, pressing his hands to Potter’s ribs as he tried pushing him away, clinging to his last vestiges of sanity. "If you--" But Potter was pulling Draco down to his height, pressing their mouths together more firmly. Draco's stomach flew into his throat. “Mmm,” Draco groaned hopelessly against Potter's lips, instantly forgetting whatever logical thing he had been about to say as his arms slid from Potter’s ribs to wrap around his back, pressing their chests tightly together.

There it was again: a tangible golden heat that began at his mouth and spread through every inch of him. How often had he dreamed of this? How was it possible that anything he'd ever dared to imagine paled in comparison to this reality? Everything about Harry Potter was impossible--even his mouth. This wasn’t just biology. He had kissed people before. This was like nothing he had ever felt in his life. This was, quite literally, _magical_. It was magical, and chemical, and brilliant _,_ and he wanted _more_.

Potter protested as Draco pulled away, but it was only to rip Potter’s eyeglasses off of his face and toss them on the bedside table before pulling Potter closer, tighter, and then backward onto his bed. They landed diagonally, angled up on Draco’s mountain of silk pillows, and their mouths met again in a ferocious rush. Draco was eagerly exploring Potter’s taste, the edges of Potter’s mouth, the limits of this wondrous, mysterious _heat_. Draco wove his hands through Potter’s dark hair as he pulled him closer. He pushed his tongue into Potter’s mouth and Potter whimpered as their tongues met, clutching his hands around the sides of Draco’s head as though Draco were the only thing keeping him from floating to the ceiling. As their tongues rolled together, Draco could almost see the sparks through his closed eyes, coursing over his tongue and through his blood, throbbing in his cock and back up again. It was in his lungs, in his heartbeat, in every pulsing cell of him. Their mouths grew more frantic, their movement more fierce. Draco was yanking up on Potter’s robes, practically ripping through the endless tangle of fabric until he found the hem of Potter’s t-shirt and slid underneath to press his hand against the skin of Potter’s back. And the heat was _there_ too, pulsing between their skin like a heart. Pulsing even as Draco dug his nails into Potter’s flesh and Potter groaned, thrusting against Draco’s thigh.

“I came to you last week, after the pub,” Potter whispered against Draco’s skin, planting kisses along Draco’s jaw. “You’d had too much to drink. I thought you didn’t want me.” _Impossible,_ Draco wanted to say, but couldn't quite form words. He could feel Potter smiling against the crevice between the edge of his jaw and neck, “But I fully intend to hold you to your pretty promises, Malfoy.” Potter attacked his neck, sucking and _biting_ , until he was ripping Draco’s shirt collar open and running his tongue down beneath it, along Draco's collarbone. That golden heat was _there_ , too, and all Draco could do was moan helplessly as he flopped his head to the side and pressed his tongue against Potter’s scar, licking along its jagged purple edges, tasting lightning in his mouth.

When Potter's lips found his again, Draco was consumed by want and _need_ as Potter began grinding their erections together. Draco gasped into Potter's mouth, suddenly worried he might come in his trousers. When Potter abruptly sat up, removing his mouth and cock from Draco’s body long enough to unbutton more of Draco’s shirt, reality came crashing back into Draco's head.

“Potter.” His voice was so rough and guttural that he barely recognized it. “Wait.”

Potter abandoned the last two buttons of Draco's shirt and brought their mouths back together. Draco moaned pitifully and summoned the entirety of his willpower. Before he could change his mind, he pressed a hand to Potter’s chest and pushed until their lips parted and Potter was kneeling. “Wait,” he repeated, scooting himself upright, his erection tight against his trousers.

Potter frowned, but stayed where he was. “You alright?” His voice was husky and breathless.

“No, actually.” Draco sighed, pulling loose strands of hair over his ears--loose strands that had messily strayed from his ponytail beneath Potter’s hands. He felt rather miserable, really, for what he was about to do. “I think you’d better leave.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “What? _Now_?”

“Yes, now.” The coldness was back in his voice, and Potter pulled his glasses sharply from the bedside table, forced them onto his face and sat back, blinking at him. 

“ _Why_? I don’t want to, and I don’t think _you_ want me to, do you? Aren't I supposed to stay here for the next 24 hours?” he grinned. “To assist you? For science?” Potter eagerly leaned forward again, but Draco held out his hand to stop him. 

“Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” Potter’s eyes darted to Draco’s lingering erection and bit his lip as a boyish smile crept across his face. Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh _do_ grow up, Potter.” Draco grabbed a pillow and dropped it over his crotch.

Potter finally scooted back until he was sitting at the edge of the bed, allowing one foot to dangle toward the floor. They were both still wearing their shoes. “What’s wrong? Is it too fast? It’s too fast, isn’t it?" Draco almost laughed. He'd wanted some version of this for twenty years. It was _not_ too fast. "We can slow down. Should we...I mean do you want to talk about this?”

Draco shook his head, trying to breathe.

“I just...I _can’t_ be the only one who felt that. I’m not. Right?” Potter asked. “You felt it too?”

“I felt it too,” Draco said a little miserably. “Although I think we'd best forget it."

“But this feeling, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever--”

“This _feeling_ , Potter, cannot possibly be real. I just consumed a potion. A potion that was on a _separate_ shelf, one that I _wasn’t_ going to try until I had exhausted all of the other options, but _that_ was the one that you gave me," Draco felt his frustration creeping into his voice. "Apparently you thought that the potions tucked away by the books on the back of my desk took priority over the ones prominently near the front of my desk. Potion Four was tucked away, because in my tests it was exhibiting love-potion-like tendencies.”

Potter stared at him thoughtfully, shaking his head. “No, Ron and I have both dealt with love potion before, I don’t think that--”

“Of course you don’t! You don’t think anything!" Draco snapped. This wasn't Amortentia, and that was the problem. Draco didn't know _what_ they were dealing with, because this potion was entirely unique. Now Draco was wondering if Potion Four had somehow leaked onto his clothes or fingers that night at the pub and made its way into his system; it was far more rational than believing that he and Potter had some sort of golden magical connection, yet _that's_ what Potter wanted to believe. "If you ever actually thought with your brain instead of your testosterone we wouldn’t be in this miserable mess in the first place.”

“Are you fucking serious?!” Potter was on his feet and pacing toward the center of the room, his hands wound tightly in the hair at the back of his head. “Here we are again, hmm?” Potter said, turning back to face Draco, the pink flush drained from his face. “What the fuck _is_ this, Malfoy?”

“I believe it’s a heated compound of moonstone, rose thorns--”

“I’m not talking about your bloody potion! I’m talking about _us_! I’m talking about whatever the fuck has been going on between us! That has _nothing_ to do with a potion, and you _know_ it!”

Draco clenched his jaw. Oh, _that_. He hadn’t the foggiest idea. He wanted Potter like a drug, but he still wasn't entirely sure why. In fact he didn’t _want_ to know why, because the thought of a deeper emotional connection with Harry Potter still absolutely terrified him. Sex was one thing. _Emotions_ were another matter entirely. “I...I'm afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he croaked.

Potter kicked Draco’s bedpost so hard that Draco wouldn't have been surprised if it had scooted along the floor. “You can’t even--!” He looked at Draco very seriously, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t know why I _ever_ thought this could work.” Potter turned on his heel, threw open the door, slammed it shut behind him, and was gone.

Draco took a shaky breath. The room was silent except for the trickling of the vermouth fountain in the corner. He slowly reached up, pulled the ribbon out of his hair, and smoothed his hair back into his fist. He tied the ribbon back into his hair and let his hands flop out onto the bed in front of him, just _staring_ at his pale forearm and dark gauntlet against the green silk as that tingling heat slowly, slowly faded away. He stayed like that until he lost track of time.

Eventually he got up, crossed the room, and opened the door, not even bothering to button up his shirt. Instantly, two female professors who had been walking by turned and looked at him. They walked toward him clumsily, and then leaned forward. Each one planted a kiss on his cheeks. There was no golden light from their touches, no sparks exploding through his core. They continued walking down the hall again, as if nothing had happened. Then a male professor did the same, kissing his forehead this time. There was nothing golden or magical about it. An owl flew by with mail in its beak and, thankfully, didn’t give Draco a second glance.

Draco slowly closed the door and fell into the chair in front of his desk, feeling like a complete idiot.

 _Fountain of Mouths_ , he wrote in his research journal. _All humans in human consumer’s presence will feel compelled to give him or her a single, innocent kiss on the face._

Then he clenched his hands into fists, folded them onto the desk in front of him, and allowed his forehead to collapse against the wood.


	8. Chapter 8

By Saturday night the potion had worn off, and Draco felt absolutely terrible. It probably didn't help that he hadn't left his quarters all day to eat, but that was the least of his worries. He was far more overwhelmed by the foreboding feeling that he had fucked up his chances with Potter for good. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much. It _shouldn’t_ bother him, by all reckoning. He had been alone for the better part of fifteen years, and when he inevitably left Hogwarts he would be alone again _._ He and Potter had hated each other for most of their lives. Why should he care if Potter hated him now? His own words from the truth potion echoed back into his ears. _I will fucking break_. 

Well, he wasn’t broken. He was fine. He was walking to dinner on his own two feet and everything. He entered the Great Hall, where small gatherings of students filled the tables. The food hadn’t appeared yet, but Draco wanted to be there the instant it did. He made his way toward the head table. There weren’t very many teachers there yet, but of course Potter had to be one of them. Draco watched him. Draco didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was watching him. Potter didn’t look at him. Potter didn’t even look up from his empty plate. He just looked... _sad_. He looked lonely and _sad_.

Draco suddenly felt like someone had scraped out his insides, stomped them all to mush, and then poured them back inside of his body. He tried to remind himself that this was _Potter_ , and he was a _Malfoy_ , and he was being ridiculous. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and sat down, fanning out his cloth serviette with a forceful flick of his wrists and smoothing it over his lap. He sat upright in his chair, the perfect image of pureblood etiquette, and didn’t look at Potter for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, far more content with food in his belly, Draco wandered back to his room. He reviewed his potions journal, jotting down a few additional notes where he decided he hadn’t been clear enough, and stretched. He would plan to talk to Granger as soon as he could. If he didn’t find another willing volunteer, he would just have to continue alone. Agreement or no agreement, he _had_ to finish this project, and get away from Hogwarts for good so he could think freely again.

He wriggled out of his robes, took a small sip of vermouth and leaned back onto his pillows, trying to relax. He was still wearing a black silk shirt with silver braces and pale grey trousers, so he rolled his shoulders, taking a moment to appreciate that glorious silk-on-silk feeling. He tried to forget about the night before. He tried to ignore the fact that he could still smell Potter in his bed. Taste Potter’s skin, his scar in his mouth. Taste that tingling golden heat. He shook the thoughts from his head and closed his eyes. It was the weekend. He was determined _not_ to think about anything. Anything at all. 

-

Draco must have drifted to sleep, because the urgent knocking on his door sounded distant at first. And there it was again, loud and impatient against his door. “Come in!” he shouted, sitting up and trying to will himself awake. He looked up at the clock. The doorknob wiggled, and then the knocking resumed. 

Draco groaned and walked over to the door. “It’s nearly midnight,” he muttered to whoever was on the other side. “Do you have any idea--”

To his surprise, James Potter was standing on the other side of the door, looking panicked. “You’re a Death Eater. You know Death Eater stuff?”

“ _Former_ Death Eater, I believe you mean to say.”

“My dad’s on patrol tonight, and I was watching him from the battlements. You know. Like we do sometimes. And. I mean. I swear I keep seeing this dark hooded thing--”

“Where is he?” Draco was already slamming his door behind him.

“On the grounds. Out a ways past the pitch,” James had to jog to keep up with Draco’s pace. “I’m sorry for disturbing your ugly sleep or whatever, but Uncle Ron and Aunt H are in Hogsmeade for the weekend, and I figured since you...well, since _you_ want to be the one to kill my dad and all, I thought maybe you’d at least _try_ to look into it without telling me I’m being paranoid.”

“For the record, pup, if I really wanted to kill your dad I would have done it already. Tell me about the hooded thing.”

“Well, at first I thought it was just another person on patrol, you know? Because it was way out on the opposite side of the grounds, and it looked like it was kind of pacing back and forth or something. But then it kept getting closer to my dad. And then I realized it wasn’t really _on_ the ground at all. It was sort of. Floating. And I thought. What if it’s one of those dementor things? They kind of look like that, right?”

“They do. Luckily I hear your dad can take on an army of them.”

“No, Professor, that’s the thing. My dad hasn’t been able to cast a Patronus since my mom died. It’s one of the reasons he left the Aurors. You _can_ cast a Patronus, right? My dad’s been teaching me, but I still can’t manage it.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Draco was sprinting now. He had started sprinting the instant the words “hasn’t been able to cast” came out of James’ mouth. He found the nearest door leading outside and burst out onto the lower battlements, jogging along the edge toward the stairway to the keep, scanning the grounds for Potter. He could just barely see the dark, familiar shape of Potter past the pitch, walking toward the Forbidden Forest. Draco had had a few close calls with dementors in some tombs, but he'd only ever been able to produce a misty sort of light. It had bought him time before other researchers rushed in to help, but it certainly wasn’t enough to banish a dementor or send a message to Hogsmeade, where he _knew_ there were two people who could each cast a full Patronus.

“James!” Draco stopped, grabbing James by the arm.

“Yeah?”

“In case this doesn’t work, I need you to _run_ to Hogsmeade as fast as you can. Did you see any other dementors?”

“No, just the one.”

“Okay. In case you _do_ see a hooded thing, run even faster. If you reach the point where you _have_ to cast a Patronus, remember you have to _feel_ it, you have to--”

James groaned. “You sound like my dad! Feeling’s the easy part! It’s the wand part I can’t get right.” Draco grabbed James’ hand and moved it in the air beneath his, mimicking the proper wand movement for a Patronus. “No, you have to flick up, right at the end, got it?”

“Ohhhhhh! I always flicked down.”

“Now _run_.”

They parted and soon Draco was following his own advice, running down the stairs and across the stones of the keep, nearly slipping on them. The sky was spitting something between rain and ice, and it bit sharply against Draco’s cheeks as he ran. When he crossed the drawbridge, he could see the dementor in the distance. It was closing in on Potter. Potter _had_ to have seen it. Why wasn’t he doing anything? Could he really be that oblivious to his surroundings when he was supposedly on _patrol_ for Merlin's sake?

As he neared the pitch, he could see that the dementor was undoubtedly confronting Potter. If Potter hadn't noticed the dementor before, he was surely noticing it now. _Cast, Potter, cast. Cast, damn it!_

Potter fell to his knees. Draco cried out and urged his legs to move faster as he readied his wand. “Expecto patronum,” he mumbled, sprinting so hard that he was barely capable of breathing. Nothing. Fuck. He had never really managed this before. Not a full patronus. But he couldn’t fail this time. For Harry’s sake, he couldn’t fail. 

He thought of his father in the drawing room, sipping brandy with his legs tightly crossed, opening a hand to Draco and smiling as he came into the room, fresh out of school from his first year at Hogwarts. “Expecto patronum,” he repeated, jabbing his wand into the air. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 _Harry, get up._ "Potter, get up! Cast!"

Draco thought of his mother sitting in the sunlight in her little garden in France, how proud and happy she always looked when Draco arrived for tea. “Expecto patronum,” he said a little more clearly. Barely a mist. He was past the pitch now. He was running out of time.

Draco cursed under his breath as Potter fully collapsed onto the ground. There was only one real way to cast a Patronus, and it meant forcing himself to feel, really _feel_. It meant stirring up every sentiment he had been burying deep inside of himself. It meant allowing himself to feel a genuine joy he believed he hadn't deserved for the last fifteen years. It meant fully facing his emotions, instead of running from them. With Harry's life actively at risk, it was suddenly easy.

The dementor turned to Draco, its hollow black face hiding beneath the tattered dark cloak. He could feel its malicious pull on him already. The cold, empty chill. It was so different, Draco realized, from that golden heat consuming him last night. It was the complete opposite, in fact. Draco allowed himself to think of it. He allowed himself to curl the memories of Potter and that golden heat around him, to not deny, but _feel_. He thought of Potter sweeping in to save him from the Fiendfyre. He thought of the way Potter had looked at him during the trial, that desperate kindness in his eyes after everything Draco had done. _Draco has a good heart_. Granger's words: _Harry trusts you._ Harry’s _I think I rather liked it._ The way Potter smiled flirtatiously at him from across the meeting room. The way Harry sat on the end of his bed in the morning, trying not to laugh as Draco made jokes at Weasley’s expense. The way Potter played Quidditch with Draco and his children, that look of pure joy. The way their elbows touched at the pub. That warm, golden light between them and the delightful, tingling taste of Harry against his mouth. His heart suddenly felt fuller than it had ever felt in his life, and he _knew_ he could do this. He _had_ to. For Harry.

“Expecto _Patronum_!”

Pale blue light shivered from the end of his wand and slithered into the air like a river. And then it was growing. Widening. Gaining legs. Gaining wings. Draco watched as a small Hebridean Black dragon, roughly five feet high, gracefully flew toward the dementor. The dementor hissed in protest, screaming in shrill whispers. There was a flash of light, and it was gone. The dragon landed on all fours, its wings upright and outstretched, its long neck and even longer tail snaking gracefully behind it. Draco smiled, suddenly wanting to cry as he held out his hand to it. The dragon pressed its nose forward and through his fingers, then turned its head. It brought its face to Harry’s chest, nudged, and then faded away.

 _Potter_. 

Draco instantly fell to his knees and pulled Harry into his arms. “Potter?” Draco began murmuring healing spells and warming spells.

Nothing.

“Answer me!” Potter's skin was like ice. The dementor hadn’t kissed him, not fully, it couldn’t have. Not Harry. Harry Potter was invincible. But for being invincible, he wasn’t moving. Draco felt nauseous. He leaned an ear low toward Potter’s mouth. He waited. His chest felt like it was being ripped open as he waited, fearing the worst. And then Potter inhaled. He was breathing. He was _breathing_. Thank Merlin. But he was still freezing. Draco needed to get Potter out of the ice that was still pelting from the sky, but Hogwarts was too far. Draco pulled Harry into his arms with the assistance of a spell and half-carried, half-levitated him, walking rapidly toward the dark, abandoned Quidditch pitch. He walked beneath the stands, down the stairs, and kicked the doors to the changing rooms open. They didn’t budge. He cast an angry spell at them and they shot open long enough for him to get Harry inside, and then they slammed closed behind them. 

“Lox!”

Draco carried Harry through the changing room and into a shower cubicle. He knelt as he set Potter down onto the white tile and blasted the shower water, allowing the hot stream to soak them both. He reached down to unbutton Potter’s robes, fingers still numb and clumsy, and pulled Potter to a seated position. Draco sat behind Harry and leaned Harry back against his knees. He peeled Potter's robe, which still hadn’t regained any heat even in the hot shower water, down his arms and flapped it, wet and heavy, onto the tile floor. He unbuttoned Potter’s shirt without bothering to untuck it. He scooted back until he was sitting against the rear shower wall and pulled Potter between his legs, allowing Potter’s back to fall against his chest. He wove a hand beneath Potter’s unbuttoned shirt and rubbed his chest, spreading his fingers through a thin layer of dark hair, trying to warm Potter from the core. He willed that tingling golden heat to come back. “Please, Potter,” he whispered. “Please.” Draco pressed his lips to Potter’s cheek and closed his eyes. There it was, that impossible warmth, coursing through his hand and tingling though his lips even though no potion could possibly be causing it. Draco pulled Harry’s shirt partly down Harry's arms and then ripped his own shirt open wide beneath his braces so that he could press part of his bare chest to Potter’s back. He wrapped his hands around Potter’s chest again and pressed his lips against Harry's neck, moving until his mouth found Potter’s pulse. He closed his eyes again and willed that golden heat to pulse between their bare skin, willed it into Potter’s veins, willed it to flush the darkness and the sorrow and the cold emptiness of the dementor's attempted kiss away. This was _his_ kiss. _Their_ kiss. It was golden, warm, and powerful. 

Potter groaned and twitched his head upright, sputtering on shower water. 

Draco smiled into his neck. Potter looked down and over his shoulder until he saw Draco holding him, then relaxed a little. Harry eased back into Draco's arms, his hands still on Draco’s knees, his shirt bunched down around his wrists. They sat like that for a long time, not saying anything as the hot shower water fell around them. Draco began drifting to sleep.

“It would’ve taken me, I suppose,” Potter finally said. “I probably would have let it.”

Draco opened his eyes and held Harry tighter.

“It went directly _there_ , you know? To the rawest, emptiest part of me. I didn’t even have a chance to _try_ to cast anything.”

Draco began running his fingers in small circles across Harry’s chest, enjoying his explorations there, the feeling of chest hair, the golden tingling that followed his movements.

“How did you know where to find--?”

“James,” Draco said.

“Mmm. Where is he?”

“Hogsmeade.”

Silence. Draco continued running his fingers gently across Harry's chest.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but it feels fantastic,” Potter murmured sleepily.

Silence again.

“Wait, so...did _you_ cast a Patronus?”

Draco smiled at the memory of his spell, at the memory of what had _inspired_ his Patronus, and hummed contentedly into Potter’s neck.

“What was it? I’ve always wondered.”

It felt like such a personal thing to confess, but he murmured, “Hebridean Black,” against Harry’s neck.

“Mmm.” There was a pause as Harry shifted, burrowing a little deeper into the curve of Draco’s chest. “It suits you, I suppose. Mysterious. Aggressive. Pointy. Enjoys torturing stags.”

Draco playfully nudged Potter with his knee. 

“Also gorgeous. Elegant.”

Draco smiled against Harry’s neck and settled back against the wall. 

Silence again.

Draco began running his lips softly along Harry’s neck, still fascinated by the tingling golden warmth he found there, and Harry hummed sleepily.

“I was wrong,” Draco murmured.

“Hmm?”

Draco rolled his head to the side, so that his chin was still resting on Harry’s neck but his lips were free to speak. “About the potion. This,” he said, pressing his hands tight and flat against Harry’s chest. Golden heat surged warmly between them like a wave. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a potion.”

“Told you so.”

“Yes, of course you did, you braggart,” Draco squeezed Harry between his knees. “But what is it? This isn't _normal_ , Potter. What if it’s something bad?”

“Of course _your_ first thought would be that a warm, lovely light is bad.” Harry shrugged. “It doesn’t _feel_ bad. It feels...right. It feels... _us_.”

“Well, in that case, I believe _us_ just saved you from a dementor.” Draco paused. “Oh! That reminds me.” Draco leaned, trying to reach his wand on the tile, but his fingers couldn’t quite meet the handle.

“Need something?”

“My wand.”

Harry lazily opened his palm against Draco’s knee and the wand flew right into it.

“Show-off. Do you _always_ get what you want?” Draco murmured fondly into Potter's neck, taking the wand. He focused on the golden light between them and barely needed to whisper before his Patronus was shimmering before them. 

“It’s perfect,” Potter said, turning his head to watch it so that his cheek was pressed against into Draco’s shoulder.

Draco gave the Patronus a message for James: his father was alright, the dementor had been dealt with, and they would meet up with him in the morning. He sent the Patronus on its way.

“I suppose that’s something for tomorrow," Draco said. "Find out why a dementor was stalking you across school grounds.”

Harry shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.” 

“It’s ridiculous. You may as well have a giant target painted on your arse.”

“Mmm. Now you’re getting it.”

“I don’t like it," Draco pouted. “The only one targeting your arse should be me.”

Harry snorted.

Silence again.

“I like this. The not fighting,” Harry said as he lifted his hand to run it along the back of Draco’s wrist, where a surge of warmth ran up his arm. “And this.” Harry pressed his fingers a little more purposefully against him and that golden warmth intensified. “I like this too. And...” He twisted a little in Draco’s arms and attempted to lift an arm behind his head, but found he was trapped by his wet shirt, still tight at his wrists. Draco unbuttoned Harry’s shirt at the cuffs and pushed it off of him completely, throwing it across the cubicle. It hit the wall with a wet _smack_. Then Harry lifted his hand again, running a long, dripping strand of Draco’s hair between his index and middle finger. “And this. This has been driving me mad.”

“Shall I cut it?”

“Don’t you dare.” Harry tugged Draco’s hair a little at the ends, twirled a strand between his fingers, and settled back against Draco’s chest. The heat felt even stronger without Harry’s shirt between them. Draco wanted to feel that golden heat--all of it--across his chest. He wriggled out of his braces and shirt sleeves and pulled his shirt down until it folded completely back against the waist of his trousers, where it was still tucked in. _Then_ he felt it. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s chest and the golden light surged through them, almost unbearably warm and pleasant. He could practically feel it restoring Harry's strength.

Draco traced his fingers across the gentle rolling muscles of Harry’s chest, over his shoulders and down his arms, afraid to close his eyes in fear that this would be his only chance to see Harry this way--wet, naked, and dripping. He was afraid that if he closed his eyes, Harry would remember all of the reasons for his anger and disappointment the night before, and disappear.

Harry hummed with pleasure, mindlessly lifting a hand to Draco’s left wrist. His thumb dragged against Draco’s black leather gauntlet. “This must be terribly uncomfortable,” he murmured. Harry tapped it, and water splashed beneath his fingers. “You’ll ruin it.”

Draco stiffened at first, instinctively feeling a blend of protectiveness, fear, and shame. 

“Relax, Draco,” Harry said soothingly. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

And then Draco did relax. He didn’t even try to pull away as Harry unfastened the buckles of his leather cuff. For some reason, having _Harry_ unfasten the gauntlet that hid one of his darkest secrets didn’t seem to matter all that much. It felt as innocuous as someone untying his shoelaces. Harry threw the cuff onto the pile with their other clothes and ran his fingers up and down Draco’s bare forearm, where his pale skin had gone a little pink and patchy from the leather in the hot water. Harry ran his finger in figure eights along the faded, unmoving snake of his Dark Mark, and Draco allowed his head to fall back against the wall.

“I was so angry,” Harry whispered, pressing his thumb against the skull of his Mark. “When you let him do this to you.”

“Didn’t have much choice, did I?”

“I know,” Harry said, weaving his fingers between Draco’s and bringing Draco’s knuckles to his lips. “I know _now,_ anyway.”

They sat in comfortable silence and Draco stared toward the open door of the shower cubicle as heat danced across his knuckles beneath Harry’s mouth. “This room,” he murmured finally, “was once the bane of my existence.”

“Because you didn’t know how to lose at Quidditch?” Harry nipped teasingly at his knuckles.

“ _No_. Because of you and your stupid shirts. You always came in here and flung them off first thing, right in front of everyone. In front of _me_ , it always felt like. All ‘ _Oh look, I’m Harry Potter, legendary Gryffindor seeker and saviour of the world, look at my perfect abs.’_ You were so damned _cocksure_. There were days I just wanted to...”

“Yes?” Harry was running his tongue along the valleys between his knuckles.

“Merlin, Potter, that’s--” 

“What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to punch that stupid shit-eating grin off your face, that’s what. And that’s all I will say on the matter.”

“I was a _teenager_.”

“Well, yes, and that was the problem wasn’t it? All beautiful and perfect and oozing testosterone.”

“Nothing like now, I suppose.”

“Exactly. Now you’re hideous and rarely ever smug.” Draco smiled, nipping at Harry’s ear. Harry moaned, and the vibration of it traveled through his back and into Draco’s chest. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted you,” Draco chuckled softly into Harry’s ear. “If only my younger self could see me now.” 

“So you admit it then? There _is_ something between us?”

“Potter,” Draco nipped again, sucking Harry’s earlobe into his mouth and delighting at the throaty sounds he made. “There’s _always_ been something between us.” Draco swept his fingers up and down the trail of dark hair from Harry's chest, down to the waistband of his trousers and up again. 

“Mmm,” Harry hummed. “You know what I used to imagine? What you might look like beneath your uniform. You _never_ took it off in front of anyone--always slipped into a cubicle or waited until everyone was gone. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“At least _some_ of us are modest.”

“Or incredibly prudish,” Harry laughed.

Harry was wearing those jeans, the ones with the rip in his thigh, and Draco _finally_ allowed himself to do what he had been dreaming of doing since that first night in the Great Hall. “Prudish?!” Draco ran his finger along the skin he found there, pushing his finger beneath the fabric to pull at Harry’s bare thigh. He pulled his fingers out again and placed a hand on either of Harry’s legs, scraping along Harry's thighs over his trousers. At the same time, Draco traced his tongue over the top of Harry’s shoulder, smiling when Harry’s trousers tightened at the crotch. Harry’s breath was already ragged by the time Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's hips and began unbuttoning his trousers. “Prudish, am I?” 

At that moment in Draco's arms, Potter was so impossibly beautiful that he could hardly fathom it. Merlin, could he really have this? Would Potter actually let him _have_ this? Would he actually let Draco _touch_ him in ways he'd dreamed about since he was a teenager? Was Draco really _allowed_ to worship the man the rest of the world adored?

Harry stopped breathing entirely as Draco maneuvered the zip down to its base flipped his trousers open. Harry inhaled sharply through his nose as Draco pressed his palm over Harry’s erection through his pants. “Draco...”

Draco pulled his hand back up and slid it beneath the elastic, wrapping Harry’s burning cock in his hand. Harry hissed and dug his fingers into Draco’s thighs. The golden heat was _there_ , too, beneath Draco’s hand as he slowly began to stroke. Harry’s cock felt better than silk, and he explored it with his fingers until blind exploration wasn’t enough.

He pushed Potter’s pants and trousers to the tops of his thighs, watching over Harry’s shoulder to see his cock spring free. And Harry was just as goddamned gorgeous there as he was everywhere else. Draco slid his fingers down through the mass of dark curls, down to cup Harry’s testicles, running his thumb over the sensitive flesh and listening to Harry moan. He trailed his fingers lightly around the head of Harry’s cock before bringing it firmly into his hand. He began to stroke again, slow and a little uneven, until Harry was breathless and whimpering. He increased his pace a little, using his free hand to scrape up Harry’s neck, into his hair and back down to wrap around Harry's chest.

Merlin, Potter was actually letting him go through with this. Draco brushed a thumb over one of Harry's nipples as he traced his tongue along the top of Harry’s spine, involuntarily thrusting his hips once against Harry's lower back. Soon Harry was bucking up into his hand, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Draco bit down at the base of Harry’s neck and _sucked_. “Ah!” Harry gasped, reaching up and backwards, his elbow pointing toward the ceiling as he dug his fingers against the back of Draco’s neck. Harry grunted and thrust upward as long white streams of come pulsed from the tip of his cock and washed over Draco’s fist in the shower water. Harry collapsed back against Draco’s chest and let his arm fall out to the side.

“That was...” Potter was panting, his chest rising and falling as he loosely gripped Draco’s legs. When Harry finally caught his breath after a few minutes, he turned around, still a little dazed as he looked into Draco’s face. Harry was drinking him in, and Draco let him. Harry’s eyes traced the lines of his jaw, lingering on his mouth before moving toward the base of his neck, his shoulders, his chest. 

Harry blinked. 

Harry’s brows drew together, his face all severity and tight lines, any lingering dreaminess gone. Draco instantly realized his mistake. 

“I...Is that--?” Harry swallowed. “Fuck _."_

“Potter,” Draco tried to turn away, “ _don’t_.” Draco reached for his shirt, which was still tucked into his trousers behind him, but Potter pressed him down and wouldn’t let him move. Potter was ruining it. They had been having a perfectly decent moment, and Potter went and ruined it.

The scars of Potter’s Sectumsempra were still there, of course--three pale, puckered lines like a long, disconnected backward Z from the spell that had brutally sliced Draco open. The first line slanted from the ball of his left shoulder across the span of his chest. The second, at a sharper angle, began near his right armpit, crossed through the first scar and spanned down to his lower left ribs. The third, separate from the other two, began an inch to the right of his naval and curved around to his side and into the top of his pelvis. Potter gingerly lifted a hand and pressed his fingers to the thick puckered edge of the first scar at his shoulder. “Draco,” he whispered, his voice all pity and regret. Draco rolled his eyes and tried to squirm away again, but Potter pushed him forcefully back against the wall and straddled him, sitting his weight on Draco’s legs so that Draco was now the one pressed between _Harry’s_ thighs. 

“I really wish you wouldn’t--”

Potter silenced him by pressing their mouths together, gripping the sides of Draco’s face, his thumbs grazing back and forth along his cheekbones in that way that Draco loved. He sighed against Potter’s mouth, bringing his hands to the uneven mess of fabric that had made its way back up Potter’s hips. Draco pulled Harry closer as that golden heat tingled against his lips and dove into his bloodstream. Draco’s cock throbbed, still half hard from watching Harry come.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered against his mouth. “I didn’t know...” Harry traced his tongue along Draco’s lower lip and then pulled away.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, don’t. It’s--” Draco inhaled as Harry pressed his mouth against the scar at Draco’s shoulder, running his tongue along the long line of it, across Draco’s chest. Draco moaned and let his head fall back against the wall. Potter scooted down and began the second scar with his tongue, then pressed tickling kisses across his stomach to his ribs. Harry pulled Draco's shirt out of his trousers and threw it against the wall with a wet smack. He dug his fingers into the waistline of Draco’s trousers and pulled them down just enough to lick the scar from Draco’s naval to the top of his pelvis. Draco dug his knuckles into the tile floor, worried he might faint from how good it felt. 

Harry ran his fingers along the inside of Draco’s waistband and then pushed down until he brushed against Draco’s blonde curls. “Potter--” Draco lost his voice as Harry began forcefully unfastening his grey trousers, yanking them down past his knees. Harry crawled back to Draco’s ankles, threw off Draco's shoes and socks, gripped his pants and trousers and yanked on the soaking wet cloth, pulling Draco down the shower wall a little with the force of it until Draco was leaning up on his elbows and completely naked, fixedly watching Potter fling his trousers over his shoulder.

Now Draco was quite certain he was dreaming. He had been pleasantly surprised that Potter had even allowed Draco's hand inside of his pants, but _this_? Harry was kneeling at Draco’s ankles, his eyes filling with fire as he took in the sight of Draco’s lean, bare form and erect cock. “So this is what you’ve been hiding,” Harry whispered. Still semi-clothed from his hips down, Harry crawled between Draco’s legs, nestling himself between them. Draco’s cock twitched beneath Harry’s gaze and Harry gave that same knowing, arrogant little smirk he'd given the morning he fell into Draco's bed.

Then Harry leaned forward and dragged the flat width of his tongue from the base of Draco's cock to the tip. 

Draco grunted incoherently, his head falling backward between his shoulder blades as his fingers spread flat and wide against the shower tile. Harry swirled his hot tongue in teasing circles around the tip of his cock and Draco stared at the top of the wall behind him, seeing stars. The golden heat, swirling pleasurably around his cock beneath Harry’s tongue was almost too much. 

When Harry wrapped his lips around the tip of his cock, Draco’s head flew upright. His elbows slipped completely out to the sides as he watched in hungry disbelief while his cock began to disappear into Harry’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed. This couldn’t be real. _Harry Potter_ was sucking his cock. It was impossible. ...But then again, so was Harry Potter.

When Harry slid his mouth back to the tip, added suction, and moved back down again, Draco fell completely back against the tile, the thin pool of water splashing beneath his weight as his strength left him. Harry moved up again and swirled his tongue around the tip of his cock, gently kissing and sucking. Then Harry pushed forward and nearly swallowed Draco’s cock whole.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Draco clawed Harry’s shoulders as he slid his mouth up and down. Draco could hear himself moaning wantonly, but there was no controlling it; the sound was almost distant, as if he were submerged in water and hearing the voice of someone else. Draco’s hands slid from Harry’s shoulders up to the back of his neck and then dug forcefully into the back of Harry’s head. He was just barely restraining himself from thrusting forward and forcing himself down Harry’s throat. As if reading his mind, Harry wrapped a fist around the base of Draco’s cock and then slid his other hand along the tile floor until he was grasping the flesh of Draco’s buttocks, pulling him up into his mouth. Draco stopped trying to restrain himself. He clasped the back of that dark-haired head and thrust violently into Harry’s wet and eager mouth. Again. And again. And again.

Draco tried to loosen his fingers on Harry’s head, but they wouldn’t move. He hadn’t the willpower. “Close,” he managed to say, not recognizing his own voice. Harry pulled his hand from Draco’s arse and began massaging the sensitive sacks of flesh at the base of Draco’s cock, as if encouraging Draco to continue. Draco whined with pleasure as he continued to thrust. “Harry, I'm-- _fuck_ ," he breathed as the tingling heat pulsed around his cock beneath Harry’s mouth. Harry moaned approvingly against him, and the vibration drove him over the edge. Draco cried out, an almost fragile, desperate sound, and pushed his hips off the tile with a final thrust into Harry’s mouth, still clutching Harry’s head as he came, entire body convulsing with euphoria. 

Draco collapsed onto the tile, incapable of moving. “Holy shit,” he breathed at the ceiling, his arms sprawled out beside him.

Harry collapsed on top of him, looking quite pleased with himself.

Then, with his mouth against Harry’s hair, an arm nestled around Harry’s back, and the water still running, Draco drifted to sleep.

-

Draco woke up choking on shower water. He sat up, gasping and coughing as he looked around the cubicle. Harry was gone. Harry’s clothes were gone. Draco’s skin was a wet, puckered mess, and he had apparently depleted the shower water’s heating charm because he was _freezing_. He turned off the water and got to his feet, his lower back crackling and body numb from the tile. He stooped to pick up his wand and cast a series of drying charms on his clothes and himself. His leather gauntlet really _had_ gotten ruined, and somehow he found that he didn’t mind. He tucked it in his robes, not feeling quite the same compulsion to cover his arm as he once had.

When Draco opened the door to the pitch, he saw that it was dawn. A faint lavender light was spreading across the sky and he smiled against it. He felt fantastic. He took a deep breath of the frosty morning air. The ice had turned into snow overnight, leaving a thin green-and-white blanket over the grounds.

He stopped by the kitchens for an early breakfast, grabbing an extra pastry and pumpkin juice in case he happened to run into Harry. Considering his next destination was Harry's quarters, the prospect of running into Harry was quite likely.

Draco made his way through the halls. It was Sunday morning, and it seemed like there wasn’t a single soul awake yet. He felt light and chipper. He was even _humming_ to himself like a goddamned lunatic. Draco walked past his quarters and veered down the next hallway. He didn’t stop until he was standing directly in front of Potter’s door. Seeing as his hands were full, he kicked against the wood a couple of times with his shoe.

Potter opened the door.

Draco smiled. 

And then Potter punched him square in the jaw.


	9. Chapter 9

The force of Potter's fist stole Draco's vision as he stumbled backward and fell against the floor, the pastry toppling from his hand and the pumpkin juice spilling down his silk shirt and splashing across the stones. The silver mug hit the hall floor with a loud _clang_ that broke the morning stillness. Draco looked up at the ceiling, trying to regain his vision. His equilibrium. Trying to figure out what the fuck he had done wrong. It was practically Cornelius all over again. Last night, Harry had been purring and warm and curled on top of him. Now, he looked like something else entirely. Something almost frightening.

“Merlin, Harry!” _Weasley_ , of all people, was scrambling to Draco’s side, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it against Draco’s swelling, bleeding lip.

Harry stood in the doorway looking down at him, gripping the door frame so hard his knuckles were paling. He looked _furious_. “You sent my son. _Alone_. To Hogsmeade. With _dementors_ flying about? What the hell were you _thinking_?”

Draco couldn’t even respond.

“Harry, I think you may be overrea-”

“Stay out of this, Ron!”

Harry was staring down at Draco, digging his toes into the floor as if it took all of his willpower not to walk forward and kick them into Draco’s ribs. “And then you. You didn't even-- I can’t _believe_ that I...my son was almost _killed_! While we...while I let you--” 

“Harry--” Draco stammered.

“Don’t! Just don’t.” Harry slammed his door closed in both of their faces.

“Well,” Weasley sighed, helping Draco to his feet. “That went well," he said sarcastically.

“Is James...?” Draco swallowed. He couldn’t bring himself to say _alive_. Potter had said _almost_ killed. Right? Draco ran his tongue over the tender bleeding flesh on the inside of his mouth.

Weasley held onto Draco's shoulder, waiting for Draco's equilibrium to settle so that he could stand on his own. “He ran into some dementors on his way to Hogsmeade last night, but he cast a successful Patronus, made it to Hermione and me, and he’s fine. A little shaken up, I think. When he showed up, he was terrified that he was going to have to deal with losing a parent all over again.” Weasley sighed shakily. “But then your Patronus showed up, letting us know that Harry was alright, and we brought James back to the healing ward for safekeeping. I keep trying to remind Harry that we did that and _worse_ when we were James’ age, but he doesn’t want to listen. He's still a little dementor-drained this morning, it would seem. Woke up in an awful state.”

“Right.” Never mind that that awful state had apparently been in Draco’s arms.

"He'll cool off, just give him some time," Weasley patted Draco firmly on the shoulder before letting go. "Ever since Ginny, he gets a little oversensitive when it comes to the thought of losing anyone else. We're _all_ upset about Gin, but that doesn't give him the right to hit people. Not even you, Malfoy.”

Draco coughed a bitter laugh.

“Sorry about your breakfast, mate,” Weasley said, looking at the spilled pastry and pumpkin juice. “Want me to fetch you something else?”

“No,” Draco said shakily, and then took a breath and straightened his shoulders, pushing down the feelings of rejection and vulnerability welling up inside of him and shielding himself in the cold familiarity of the old Draco Malfoy. “No, Weasley,” he sighed, smoothing back his hair. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He spun down the hall, casting a cleaning charm over his shoulder at the food on the floor and flung the bloodied handkerchief over his shoulder.

So he'd been right to trust his instinct the night before. Harry wasn't going to let him have what he wanted, not really. And who could blame him? Harry had hated Draco for most of his life, hadn't he? Why should things suddenly be any different? The sting of that realization, however, hurt far worse than the pain in Draco's face. He'd finally opened himself up to _feel_ , and this was what he got. This was why Draco fled from emotions; when he opened up to them he could feel unbelievable joy, yes, but he could also feel unbelievable pain.

When Draco stepped into the healing ward, Healer Victoria gave him a sharp look. “Do you...need healing?” she asked, eyeing his face with a frown. Draco _had_ tried to apologize for what he'd said that night he took the Potion of Truth, but he wasn't entirely sure she'd forgiven him.

Draco simply held up a hand and walked over to James’ bed. James was awake, trying to persuade a healer to move him to a different bed so that the early morning sunlight wasn’t pouring into his sleepy eyes. “Professor Malfoy!” he exclaimed, wriggling upright. Draco felt some of his bitterness easing away. He couldn't _entirely_ blame Potter for being upset. Draco didn't want to lose James either, even if he could be a little arsehole sometimes. “You were right! Oh, it was _awesome_! I cast a full Patronus, wiped out _three_ dementors, and then—what the hell happened to your face?”

“Your father. Actually.”

“ _Merlin_. He’s never actually _maimed_ anyone before. Salazar’s arse, look at your _face!_ ”

“I’d rather not.” 

“But what did you _do?_ I don’t think he’s ever hit anyone in his _life_!”

“Really?" Draco said flatly. "He hits me all the time.” Well, Potter had never hit him quite like _this_. Usually it was just the collision of flailing limbs when, say, struggling to steal his wand. Or a frustrated punch to the shoulder when Draco had said something terrible. Or casting dark curses when they were trying to, quite literally, torture each other. He and Potter didn't exactly have a peaceful history. Maybe they could be "not enemies," but could they ever truly escape being _themselves_?

“Woah, is that it?” James asked, his eyes landing on Draco’s bare forearm.

Draco sighed and began to roll down his sleeve, blocking the Mark from view.

“I was actually thinking,” James lowered his voice. “Can a Death Eater even _cast_ a Patronus? They can’t, right? Because I mean… a Patronus requires love to work. And Death Eaters, being Death Eaters, probably aren’t capable of it. Right?”

Draco pulled up a chair at James’ side. “Interesting theory, Mr. Potter. Most Death Eaters I knew couldn’t cast one.” 

“So if you can cast one now, when other Death Eaters can’t, then I mean. Maybe you aren’t such a cold-hearted bastard after all.” He shrugged and grinned mischievously. “And you _do_ let me swear, unlike my dad, so that’s pretty cool. And you did _save_ my dad, so...I guess. I dunno. Maybe you’re alright. For now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter, for your enthusiastic vote of confidence.” Draco's tone was apathetic, but inwardly, he was smiling.

“James!” Albus and Lily had entered the healing ward, and both ran to sit at the foot of James’ bed. 

“Are you okay?” Albus asked.

“Did you really take on three _dementors_?” Lily was practically squealing with jealousy.

James was grinning, clearly still high on adrenaline. He crouched a little closer to his younger siblings as his face lit up. “So I was halfway to Hogsmeade, right? And they came floating out of the trees, with their nasty black hoods, all fwooo fwooo!” he made a series of whooshing noises as his hands zoomed through the air. “And they got really close, right, and I was all, ‘oh noooo, you’re sucking the life out of me, oh noooo,’ and then they were like ‘yeah, we’re evil and we’re gonna kill you,’ and then I was like ‘Expecto Patronnnummmmmmm!’ and it was super epic, you know, flicking my wand _up_ at the end,” he nodded toward Draco, “and then _bam_ ,” James clapped his hands together, “they were gone.”

“Wow,” Albus gawked. “That level of skill—”

“What was it? Whatwasit! Whatwasit! Whatwasit!” Lily bounced up and down on the edge of the bed.

James leaned back against his pillows, crossing his arms with a cocky smile that looked so much like Harry’s that it hurt Draco’s heart a little. “A stag.”

“No fair! _I_ wanted the stag!” 

“Just because your brother has a stag doesn’t mean you can’t have one too. Your Patronus is your Patronus,” Draco said.

“YesYesYes! You really think so, Profess--eeep! What happened to your face?”

“Dad punched him.”

Lily gasped, her face filling with animated, exaggerated horror.

“After Professor Malfoy saved his life and everything. Can you believe that?” James shook his head.

“But that’s not very nice at all! Don’t worry, Professor, we will see that he is scolded.” Lily turned back to James. “But what did it _look_ like? Was it exactly like Dad’s or was it different?”

“I don’t know. You saw it, right Professor? When I sent you that cool message when we got back to the healing ward? Uncle Ron let me do it. I guess it was...kind of like Dad’s. But wasn’t it the _best_ stag _ever_?”

“When you--? Oh.” Suddenly everything made a lot more sense. Draco had been sleeping like the dead, and Potter was probably the one who saw the Patronus, informing him that his child was in the healing ward because of a poor spur-of-the-moment decision that Draco had made. Well, fuck.

“When do you get out?” Albus asked. “You want any potions?”

“Nah. They’re making me stay for the rest of the morning, even though I’m perfectly fine. Dad showed up after we got here and had a bloody _tantrum._ Even got in a row with one of the healers until she actually kicked him out. Merlin, it was embarrassing. And now they’re keeping me for three extra _hours,_ because Dad’s convinced I’m going to fade away and die.” James rolled his eyes. “Honestly. _Dad_.”

“After breakfast we’ll come back with wizard’s chess, won’t we Albus?" Lily said. "Then you’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Better hurry, then. If I _am_ dying, it’s because there’s nothing to _do_.”

“Come on, Professor Malfoy, let’s go eat some breakfast,” Lily pulled on Draco’s hand, practically dragging him out of the healing ward.

"Yes, join us, please," Albus said, "I have a question about my potions homework."

Even though he wasn’t hungry, Draco found that he couldn’t refuse.

-

  
No one had learned anything about _why_ there were dementors on Hogwarts grounds, but Granger was a ball of anxiety. It was the week before Christmas holiday and everyone's schedules were booked, but she dragged half of the staff outside to cast _more_ wards anyway. Unsurprisingly, Potter refused to talk to Draco for the duration of it.

Nonetheless, Draco still found himself standing on the battlements in the snow in the evenings, watching Potter patrol the grounds. Draco wasn’t about to let another dementor incident happen again. It didn’t matter that Potter wasn’t speaking to him; he still dreaded the thought of Harry being unable to defend himself. For as long as he was still at Hogwarts, he may as well make himself useful.

“Your face is even worse,” James said, appearing beside him. “Didn’t you visit the healer?” James had also doubled down on Potter guard duty. They even coordinated their schedules to make sure that when one of them was unable to be on the battlements, the other certainly _would_ be. During the one afternoon that Potter was called away for Auror business, Draco and James were both visibly agitated and restless until Potter returned safely that evening.

Draco shrugged. “I broke your dad’s nose once, you know. This really isn’t so bad.”

“Whaaat?”

“Well, he _had_ been spying on me with that infernal invisibility cloak of his. And I was… well, I _was_ sort of working for the Dark Lord at the time. I suppose he thought he was being a hero.”

“He _was_ a hero." James crossed his arms over his chest. "Sometimes I wish I knew my dad when he was younger,” he sighed. “Just to see what he was like.”

Potter _had_ been brilliant, hadn’t he? Well, he still was.

It was almost a shame that his son would never see the young Harry Potter, though. “You want to?” Draco asked, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. 

“How?”

“Legilimency. You can see him through my memories.” It was faster than finding a Pensieve, anyway, and Draco’s Legilimency and Occlumency skills were unmatched. He’d sharpened his skills significantly when living with Death Eaters; it was the only way to _survive_. Performing any Legilimency spell for James without that kind of external pressure would be easy by comparison.

James smiled. “Really?”

Draco wasn’t sure what to show him, exactly. The war? That might be too intense. Draco ultimately decided to show James the memories of Harry on a broom for the first time, followed by a Quidditch match, and Potter flying from the dragon at the Triwizard Tournament. Maybe he would end with a scene from the Fiendfyre, when Harry saved Draco's life. It had a nice arc to it.

Draco cast a warming spell on the icy stones and with one final protective glance toward Harry patrolling beneath them, they both sat down. Draco cast the spell, allowing James to see his father through Draco’s eyes. It had been a while since Draco used Legilimency, but everything went perfectly. Draco revealed all four glimpses of Harry that he had planned. It didn’t take very long.

When he had finished, James instantly gasped and scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide. "Holy shit," James breathed, blinking at Draco. "You're in love with him."

"What?" Draco pushed himself to his feet. "I am _not_ in--"

"Oh gods, you _are_ ," James' voice trembled as he pressed a hand to his forehead in disbelief. "I could _feel_ it."

“ _No_ ,” Draco insisted, panicking now, “I’m not. I can’t be. You _cannot_ tell him anything, James, you hear me? You _can’t_. It would--”

James was running toward the door and Draco was tempted to Obliviate him; he had never intended for this to happen. He never should have dabbled in the first place. He should have known that his stupid emotions would somehow get in the way; it was why he tried to avoid them in the first place.

Bloody hell, was he really _in love_ with Potter? When had that happened? No, it was impossible. He couldn’t be.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Draco began pacing on the battlements, watching Potter below. He fully expected to see James run out to his father and tell him everything, but the moment never came.

Eventually James returned to the battlements, walking very slowly. He leaned against the low stone wall, gripping it tight and shaking his head. He took a breath. “Thank you. For showing me.” 

Draco opened his mouth, not really sure what to say.

“I won’t tell him,” James said. Draco felt relief wash through him as they both stared down at Potter walking below them. “The thing is, though... The way he looked at you during that fire, before he flies down to save you? I’ve seen that look on his face before.” James swallowed. “It’s the look he always gets when someone he loves is in trouble.”

-

Nearly everyone left on Christmas holiday, stranding Draco with the house elves, a handful of miserable students, and unexpected waves of boredom.

Granger and Weasley were gone.

Potter and his children were gone too.

Potter. Harry. Ever since Draco had tapped into his emotions to produce a Patronus, his mind had darted between the two names. Each name triggered such a feeling of fondness, even though Harry was undeniably being a complete arsehole. Well. His reasoning was almost understandable, but _still_. Potter was acting like a fifth-year. And _Merlin_ , Draco found himself actually missing Harry’s company. And Harry’s _mouth_. It was awful.

Harry was protective of his children, Draco knew. He was a good father. Harry was afraid to lose more people he loved, he’d made that much very clear, and that fear extended to his children most of all. Draco hadn't _intended_ to put James in unnecessary danger, but he felt that saving Harry's life had been worth the risk. He knew James himself agreed. Draco had always believed that saving a loved one's life was worth risk; he had the mark to prove it. But Harry had already lost far too many people in his life; he didn't want any more _risk_.

It didn't stop Draco from thinking that Harry's silent treatment was a little ridiculous.

Maybe Harry was just confused. Draco certainly was. He was still trying to wrap his head around how Harry made him _feel._ It wasn’t exactly a feeling anyone was expected to feel toward one's enemies, or even ex-enemies. It felt more like...well...no. Draco still refused to believe he _loved_ Harry. James had to be wrong. They just needed time. Time to figure things out. 

Ugh.

They didn't need time to figure things out, because things were already decided. Harry had _punched_ him in the fucking face. There was no coming back from this. He was a Malfoy, and even _he_ knew that you don’t punch people you care about.

Maybe it was time to walk away. It was time to find the potion, so he could get _out_ and _away._

 _...You’re in love with him_. 

Draco couldn’t get James’ words out of his head, and it was driving him mad. He was _not_ in love with Harry Potter. The rest of the world was. Draco refused to join the mindless masses.

His thoughts went back and forth, back and forth, the entire miserable holiday.

Draco didn't know how deeply Harry still confided in Weasley and Granger, but he must have told them _something_ , because they apparently felt so bad about the falling out with Harry that Granger had agreed to help Draco with his potions experiments when everyone returned. Until then, Draco spent most of his time in the castle alone, reviewing his potions texts and pulling the remaining unlabeled F potions up from the dungeons for testing. Not one of them contained any of the ingredients in his ancient texts, so he returned them to the dungeons.

Draco also had the horrific realization that if there had been the slightest labeling error, the potion might be filed under a different letter entirely. There was also the possibility that the label had been written in a language other than English, in which case Draco had a _lot_ more work to do. He spent a couple of days working through some labeling and summoning spells to rule out the possibility of human error. He found ten other possible potion candidates, but none of those potions contained any ingredients listed in his ancient texts either. He returned them to the shelves.

Draco spent Christmas the way he had spent every Christmas since his parents died: alone. Well, mostly alone. He had never actually _been_ at Hogwarts during Christmas before, and so he joined the miserable students for the famed great feast. It was adequate.

Maybe he and Potter really _did_ make better enemies. It was certainly starting to feel that way. They fit in all the wrong places. Draco preferred to shield his emotions behind insults and a harsh facade, while Potter preferred openness and honesty and the occasional angry outburst. ...Nevermind that Potter seemed to be the one person who managed to consistently see _through_ Draco's facade, break down his shields, and somehow turn Draco into a joyful blubbering fool. Still. Maybe they would never be what the other really needed; maybe they would never truly be enough. What Potter had said about them in the pit--that maybe they were the last people in the world for each other--that had made sense at the time. But they had tried and failed. Worse things happened every day. The _world_ was a very large place, after all. Certainly they could each find someone else. ...Maybe not someone else that filled them with light, but that was fine. That was normal. Who needed golden magical sensations anyway? They were horribly distracting.

When Draco had finished all the work he could possibly do, he took long walks alone across the grounds, trying not to think about Potter. Trying not to think about that delightful golden light of his touch. Trying not to think about Potter’s face after he had punched him to the floor. _Definitely_ not trying to think about that blissful night in the shower. Merlin.

When Draco ran out of places to walk, he sat in the Potions classroom and began stewing high-strength sleeping draughts for Albus (and it _was_ for Albus, _not_ for Harry, he told himself) so that Albus could focus on finishing the term with high marks instead of worrying about his father.

When Draco had lined his shelves with sleeping draughts, he tried to find the Room of Requirement. Just to see if he could.

When he couldn’t find the Room of Requirement, he took to walking through the edges of the Forbidden Forest, seeking ingredients for his classroom supply. 

When he had a surplus of ingredients, he began browsing the library for newspapers, trying to see if there was any news about Death Eaters on the rise and what they might want with Hogwarts. He didn’t find anything. He didn’t even flinch when he saw Harry’s face on a page with the heading: _Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor?_

On New Year’s Eve, he didn’t even bother to join the miserable students in the Great Hall. He was perfectly capable of being miserable all by himself, thankyouverymuch, with his piles of morbid newspapers and his ever-flowing fountain of vermouth.

When the only thing he found about Death Eaters in the newspapers was the fact that Ginny’s murderer was still at large, he turned to his quill and began writing a new research article about the practical modern uses of the ancient ladder spell.

It was a very long holiday indeed.

-

On a cold January day, the students and faculty finally returned. Draco planned to skip dinner that night, not ready to encounter anyone yet. In the months before the holiday break, he had nearly forgotten what it was like to be alone. He had forgotten how much work he could accomplish when he was alone. He had forgotten how much he even enjoyed being alone. It was lonely, and miserable, and wonderfully familiar. He didn't want Harry to ruin it.

There was a knock on his door, and when Draco opened it an entirely different feeling poured into him. He hated being lonely. He didn’t want to be lonely at all. He wanted Harry in his arms again. He wanted to feel that joyous golden light.

Draco took a breath and got a hold of himself. 

Potter stood in his doorway, looking like he wanted to run away. James was standing directly beside him, clutching his robes so that he couldn’t run, even if he tried.

Well, leave it to the Potters to ruin his perfectly good misery.

“What?” Draco asked as externally calmly as if these were strangers who were there to move his furniture. On the inside, however, Draco was terrified. Had James said something? Tattled on him? His eyes darted questioningly to James, but James wasn’t paying any attention.

“My dad has something he’d like to say to you, Professor. _Don’t you, Dad?_ ” James said, pushing Potter further into the doorway.

“Oh?” Draco's mouth twitched.

“Come on, Dad. Let’s get this over with.”

Potter was looking at his shoes.

Lily popped out from behind Harry’s robes. “Hello Professor Malfoy,” she said, grinning. “Did you have a good holiday?”

“Lily!” Albus’ scolding voice hissed from behind Harry. Albus poked his head around the other side of Harry's robes. “Hi Professor. Thanks for the sleeping draughts,” he said, pinching Lily’s arm and pulling her back into the hallway.

“Daaaaad,” James said impatiently.

Potter sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, still not looking up. “About hitting you.”

“Good job!” James patted his father on the arm. “And?”

“And thank you for helping James with his Patronus before sending him to Hogsmeade.”

“He...” James was drawing out the word as if Potter were a five year old learning to read.

“He could not have cast it without your help.”

“Almost there...”

“He was perfectly prepared, and I am sorry for overreacting.”

“There! You! Go!” James was slapping Potter on the back encouragingly. “Good job, Dad. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now let’s go eat.” James pulled his father out of the room and then turned back inside to grab the door handle. “See you around, Professor,” he winked and shut the door, leaving Draco to wonder what the hell kind of potion he could have possibly taken to trigger such a thing.


	10. Chapter 10

Draco was getting very good at not looking at Harry in the Great Hall. He was getting very good at avoiding Harry in the hallways. He was getting very good at not looking across the table during faculty meetings. He was getting very good at _not_ daydreaming about Potter in his arms, Potter in his bed, Potter in the shower, Potter, Potter, Potter.

Despite the apology, he and Harry still avoided each other as the weeks progressed. For his part, Draco avoided Harry because he suspected that they would inevitably fall into old habits and Harry would hate him again. Avoidance was a far more reliable tactic than opening himself to be hurt, was it not? It was certainly safer. Besides, when Draco had boarded the Hogwarts Express, he had no idea that Harry would be waiting for him at the other end of it. He was only here for his research, and then he would gone. He'd already made his decision. He'd made it before he had even arrived. He would finish his potions research, and then he would leave. There was no point in brooding over a man that had never really been his in the first place.

Granger was only free to help Draco with his potions once per month, but Draco was happy to have any assistance at all. In January they discovered the Fountain of Sleuth (that was Potion Five, which greatly heightened the mystery-solving senses of the consumer). In some ways, the potion was similar to Felix Felicis. It turned out to be quite helpful in discovering a small lead as to why there were dementors on school grounds. Under the potion's effects, Draco felt a sudden need to travel to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where they had first seen the Dark Mark in the sky. There, hidden under some leaves in the snow, was a small, round object no bigger than a marble. After doing additional research, he and Granger discovered that it was a very rare magical artifact that functioned as a magical holding cell for dementors. Draco could only surmise that it had been dropped by whomever had cast the Dark Mark in the first place. Perhaps they had intended to unleash dementors that same night, and something had gone wrong. Or perhaps dropping the artifact had been an accident. They may have found one answer, but it created a multitude of new, unanswerable questions.

In February he and Granger discovered the Fountain Uncouth (that was Potion Six, which had been so embarrassing that Draco still wasn’t ready to talk about it).

In all of Draco's experiments, Granger actually proved to be the best assistant he could have asked for. She wasn’t a skittish house elf, or an easily-offended healer, or a man he wanted to snog senseless. She frequently asked him about his symptoms, and often ran additional tests on the potions themselves while Draco was busy experiencing the effects. She had taken to writing his research notes entirely, arguing that Draco couldn’t possibly record _all_ of his symptoms objectively. He trusted her judgment, so he vocalized how he felt and she wrote down anything else she observed.

Curiously, Potion Nine had gone completely missing, which left only Potions Seven and Eight.

Still, the fact that Potion Nine was missing greatly disturbed Draco. He hunted his quarters for _hours_ and didn’t find it. He even tried to find it with magic, and that didn’t work either. It had completely disappeared.

It was mid-March before Granger was able to help him with another potions experiment. As usual, she handed him the dropper and sat down at his desk, journal open and quill in hand. They were testing one of the potions that had no label whatsoever, which made them both a little nervous. Like all of the other potions, however, he had discovered in his preliminary tests that the potion contained no traditional ingredients that were used in poisons.

Draco lifted the dropper and allowed three drops to fall onto his tongue. He smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and swallowed. 

He didn't need to wait long.

He felt dry. He felt like all of the moisture was being sucked out of his body. He sat upright, choking. He felt like his _blood_ was thickening, turning into stone. 

“Malfoy? What’s happening?”

Draco tried to speak, but couldn’t form words. He couldn’t even _move_.

“Draco?” Granger was at his side in an instant, running her wand up and down his body as she murmured diagnostic spells. “Oh _shit._ ” Draco wanted to move his eyes in her direction, wanted to see her reaction, wanted to see what she was seeing. He had never heard her swear before, Muggle or Magical, so something must be very wrong. He heard her rush to his desk and fumble through the drawers. “Do you have any antidote potions?” she asked a little frantically.

Draco couldn’t respond.

“Found it!” she said, trying to open his mouth. But his mouth wouldn’t open. It had gone numb. He felt as though he were turning to stone. He felt as though he were actually _dying_. Granger allowed a drop to fall onto his lips, where it rolled along the seam and into his mouth. Draco felt the antidote potion trying to take effect, but he knew it wouldn't do any good, because this wasn’t _poison._ This was something else. This was death on swift wings, and he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell her because he couldn’t move. He was starting to lose his capacity to even _think_.

Granger ran back over to Draco's desk and flipped through his research journal. She immediately began pulling ingredients off of his shelves and readied a cauldron. She was attempting to make a potion to counter whatever he had just taken, based on the suspected ingredients he had noted in his original tests.

Brilliant. She was brilliant.

Now that his life was in real danger, he couldn’t believe he had actually entrusted a house elf with this task. Or anyone else, really. Potter was useless at potions; there was no way he would have been able to whip up any sort of antidote even if he'd wanted to.

“Bloody hell!” she shouted, making a mess of his organized shelves. “How do you not have any valerian root? What kind of Potions Master are you?” Had he been capable of speech, he would have explained that he had plenty of it stocked in the Potions classroom, thank you very much. She was already rustling through his desk again, trying to find something else.

Draco felt his heart slowing. He could feel his lungs stilling. They were running out of time. Even if Granger _was_ able to craft an antidote, which he was almost certain she could, it would take at least another twenty minutes to brew even the most basic potion, and he was beginning to think he might be dead by then. 

He focused. It hurt like hell, but he managed to lift his finger a centimeter and tap it against the mattress. It was barely a movement. It was barely even a noise. But Granger, clever creature that she was, turned around. “What?” she asked. Draco aimed the tip of his finger at his desk. To his last remaining vial. “You want to take Potion Eight?”

Draco pointed to it again. His eyes were getting so dry that his vision was blurring.

“I think that would be unwise. What if there is some kind of counter-reaction, and--”

Draco began moving his finger in a series of slow but distinct taps against the mattress. He had a theory about what was happening, but he couldn't _tell_ her because he could barely move.

“S.O.S.? Don’t be so dramatic. You’ll be fine.” But she sounded less sure. As she waited for the cauldron to heat up, she paced nervously back and forth in front of him, running more diagnostic spells.

“Draco, your heart rate, it's--” Draco felt himself getting heavier. He felt himself falling back onto his mattress with his legs still curled, as stiff as though they were still hooked over the edge of his bed. “No, no, no,” Granger said, leaning over him. She murmured a series of healing spells, but none of them did anything at all. “Pull yourself together, Malfoy! If you die on my watch, Harry is going to _murder me_. You do realize that, don't you?”

Draco focused. He focused very, _very_ hard. He didn't quite manage to point at his desk, but he did get the very tip of his finger to twitch. With what lingering brain activity he had left, he was about to try Legilimency to communicate, but it seemed like Granger was already reading his mind without it.

“Shit! Fine! But if it doesn’t work within five seconds we’re going to St. Mungo’s!” Granger crossed the room and dipped the dropper into Potion Eight. She returned to his side, pressed the dropper against his lips, and tried to force his jaw open enough to let the drops slide into his mouth. He focused again, trying very hard to loosen his jaw. His muscles felt like they were cracking, but his mouth opened. It was such a small movement that Granger probably couldn’t even _see_ that his mouth had opened, but it was enough. The drops slid into his mouth and onto his tongue. Draco tried to swallow, but his tongue wouldn’t work. _Nothing_ was working. Luckily he felt gravity pulling the drops toward the back of his throat.

"One. Two. Three." Granger remained beside him, watching for any sign of change as she continued to cast diagnostic spells. "Four. Five. Alright, that's it. We're going to the specialists at St. Mungo's."

Before Granger could reach for him, Draco felt his pulse quickening. He felt his limbs loosening. He tested his vocal chords and managed a groan. 

“Merlin!” she exclaimed, nearly jumping on the bed. “Did it actually work?”

He groaned again.

“Oh, thank Salazar,” Granger said, collapsing onto the bed next to him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought you were going to die. I thought you were going to actually _die_.”

“So did I,” he admitted, although his voice cracked with the effort. “Water.” Granger returned with a glass of water. She helped Draco to a seated position and pressed it to his lips, since he still couldn’t lift his limbs. The water helped dramatically, and he could already feel himself coming back to life. He was even able to roll his wrists and wriggle his fingers.

“My, this _is_ comfortable,” Granger said some time later, crossing her ankles and settling back onto his silk pillows as she continued to monitor Draco's health. “And here I always thought you were just conceited. But you may actually be on to something, Malfoy. This is really quite nice.” Then she sat upright, gasping. “Ohmygosh!” Draco slowly turned his stiff neck to look at her. “Do you know what this means? We found it. _You_ found it. We’ll need to run some additional tests to confirm, but this could be it, right? It’s clearly some kind of extraordinary healing potion.” Granger was so excited that she was now standing on his bed, literally jumping for joy. “We found it! We actually found it!” 

As contagious as her enthusiasm was, Draco preferred not to have anyone jumping on his perfectly soft bed. Draco grunted. When she didn’t stop, he put forth a little extra effort to form words. “Off the bed, Granger,” he managed.

She crossed her legs mid-air and allowed gravity to pull her down onto his bed again. “Sorry,” she said, looking a little embarrassed, “but isn’t it exciting?” She pulled out her wand and began running another round of medical diagnostics. “Nothing is unusual. I mean, you’re still the same age, the same overall health. The only difference is that you drank a potion that had you near _death_ , and now you’re going to be fine.” She burst into giddy laughter, and then leaned in and hugged him. She actually _hugged_ him, and he was still so brittle that there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I can't wait until we can run more tests to figure this out. Merlin, if you weren’t gay I think I’d snog you," she giggled. "I don’t think I’ve been this excited since we discovered a gnome colony in the dungeons.”

If he weren’t gay, he'd probably consider asking Hermione Granger to marry him. She was brilliant. 

Granger stayed with Draco for a few more hours, until she was certain that he had stabilized. Once he was actually capable of speaking, he reviewed his exact symptoms with her. They concluded that it was probably some kind of fossilization or mummification potion, probably used as a preservation spray and not intended for human consumption. Granger completed Draco's research notes before she left, giving him explicit instructions to wake her in case of an emergency.

Draco slept through the night without any problems and spent Saturday in bed, drinking water like a fish. He spent most of Sunday with Granger in his classroom, running more tests on the potions he had consumed Friday night. Weasley would occasionally pop his head into the room and make light conversation when Draco and Granger weren't too deep in focus.

“It isn’t behaving like I expected,” Granger frowned, picking up a small test vial and shaking it. “Malfoy?”

“What?” Draco asked absentmindedly, lifting his head from his work.

“It’s not the Fountain of Youth,” she sighed.

Draco walked over to where she was sitting and studied the vials.

“When I was attempting to make an antidote for you, I...well, look.” She slid her notes across the table toward him, and he studied them. The contents of Potion Eight reacted in perfect opposition with the contents of Potion Seven. They hadn’t found the Fountain of Youth at all. They had just been lucky enough to find the antidote to Potion Seven--or perhaps antidote wasn’t the right word. Since he still wasn’t sure that Potion Seven was intended for human consumption at all, it was possible that Potion Eight was intended to simply undo its effects.

Draco could feel his shoulders sinking a little. 

Granger patted him on the arm and sighed. “I really thought we had it. You were so close.”

“Not close enough.”

“There's still one potion left, right?”

“It’s missing, I’m afraid. Plus, it reacted similarly to a love potion. Unfortunately I think it’s one of our least likely candidates.” Draco sat back in his chair and sighed, closing his research journal.

“Well, if you find it, let me know and I’ll be happy to help. You're welcome to continue exploring the dungeons. Maybe it’s down there somewhere, and was just misplaced?”

Draco nodded, resisting an angry urge to swipe all of the test vials off of the table and let them smash to the floor.

Potion Nine was missing.

He _had_ explored the dungeons, quite thoroughly in fact, and had found nothing promising. 

There was nothing left.

There was nothing left for him to do. He had failed. He hadn’t found it. He could go back to the museum, or maybe Carter’s estate, or maybe review the ancient texts again, or keep hunting through Egyptian tombs near Hannu's.

His time at Hogwarts was over.

He would finish out the school year as a courtesy to Granger, and he would leave. He would disappear, just like he had always done before.

It wasn’t like there was anything keeping him at Hogwarts anyway. 

-

Draco was staring out his window the following Sunday evening, contemplating any additional research he could finish while still at Hogwarts, when there was a faint knock on his door. He pulled his attention from the snow and checked to make sure that his shirt and robes were fully buttoned.

Potter stood in his doorway, attached to Lily this time instead of James. His robes weren't fastened, revealing a navy t-shirt and jeans that were, thankfully, lacking holes. Draco swallowed. He had successfully avoided close proximity with Harry for _months_. Having him suddenly so close was doing nothing helpful to Draco's insides.

“Good evening, Professor Fancyfeet!” Lily grinned. “Can you teach my dad how to waltz? I’ve tried, but he’s completely hopeless. I happened to see a photo of you dancing in the background at the Hogwarts Tri-Wizard Ball, and you were _beautiful_. Please help. I can pay you in Bertie Botts.” She partially lifted a box from the pocket of her robes and shook it. “One box per hour.”

“Lilly,” Harry muttered, “this really isn’t--” Lily lovingly smacked his ribs and he stopped talking.

“To...waltz?” Draco looked at Potter who, once again, was staring down at his shoes. A strand of dark hair fell over his eyes and Draco was tempted to push it away.

Lily dug into her other pocket and pulled out a very fancy scroll. “He has to go to _this_ , and I don’t want him to embarrass himself--or me--in front of the whole country. The whole world, really.”

“To...waltz.” Waltzing would be very counterintuitive to his whole Harry Potter avoidance plan. It would be impossible to avoid Potter if they were _waltzing_.

“Yes! Read the scroll. I’ll wait.” Lily stepped back and crossed her arms as though she were Potter's agent or publicist, rather than his eleven-year-old.

Draco took the scroll and pulled it flat between his fingers. On May Second there was to be a grand celebration, including a grand feast and a grand ball, to commemorate the anniversary of the grand victory over Voldemort. The grand guest of honor, Harry Potter, would be part of the grand events. The grand Harry Potter would be available to shake hands, serve the first dish, and lead the first dance. Everything was going to be very grand. ...Draco really hoped they had actually bothered to run all of this by Potter before they decided to print all of these grand scrolls. Draco closed the scroll and looked up at Lily. “I...”

“We’re agreed then!” she said, grabbing Draco’s robes and pulling him down the hall before he could protest. She pushed Draco and Harry into a large, empty room with wooden floors and tall windows. The room had a slight, cool draft and a scent of old wood that pleasantly reminded Draco of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor. Lily flicked her wand toward an old gramophone against the wall and a crackling tune trickled into the room. “Waltz!” she commanded, rolling out a dusty old tapestry like a picnic blanket against the wall. Settling herself on the tapestry, she pulled out Charms homework and made a show of studying. Despite the fact that she was holding a Charms textbook, Draco could _feel_ her watching them. He had a sneaking suspicion that he and Potter were both being held hostage. Well. He may as well get it over with.

“Er…” Potter stammered, his eyes roving across the floor.

“You _have_ waltzed before, Potter?”

“Of course I have.”

“Well then,” Draco said, extending his arms gracefully. “You lead.”

“Er.”

“Come now, Potter, I have parchment to grade.”

Harry cleared his throat and stepped forward, taking one of Draco’s hands in his while tucking the other around Draco's waist. And there was that stupid golden heat, burning between their hands. It was maddeningly distracting. The last time Draco had felt that heat, he had been naked on a tile floor with the man who was now so busy _ignoring_ him--or trying to, anyway--that he nearly stepped on Draco's feet before they had even taken a dance step. Maybe this was why it had been so easy to avoid Potter for all these weeks; Potter seemed quite determined to avoid him as well. It was _almost_ like being back in school again, except Draco wasn't throwing any taunts and Harry wasn't actively stalking him. ...On second thought, it wasn't like being back in school at all. They were interacting even less.

“No,” Draco said. “This hand should be higher. Oh, stand up _straight,_ Potter. There.”

Harry stepped forward. With the wrong foot. Halfway into a measure. In the middle of a beat. 

Draco cringed and looked over at Lily. “I see what you mean.”

She nodded, frowning.

“This is going to require a lot of Bertie Botts."

“I thought it might.” Lily offered Draco a glimpse inside of the bag she had been carrying. It was _filled_ with boxes of Bertie Botts beans. “I’m prepared to do what I must,” she sighed emphatically, patting the bag at her side.

Draco spent the next hour just trying to get Potter’s arms and stance right. It was torture. Every exhale of Harry's breath, every accidental brush of skin reminded Draco what he had lost. He tried to touch Harry over their clothing as much as possible, but inevitably they were still required to join _hands_. With bare skin. It was terrible. Draco was already losing his resolve. Maybe he wasn't sure if he _loved_ Harry, but he certainly _liked_ him a great deal. It was hard to deny that much when his thoughts had so quickly shifted from a determination to avoid Potter completely, to an overwhelming desire to snog him until they couldn't remember their own names. Harry still wouldn't look Draco in the eyes, and that was becoming its own special brand of torture. He was tempted to grab Harry's face between his hands and _force_ those green eyes to meet his. He desperately wanted to know what Harry was thinking. He took a deep breath and pushed all Harry-related thoughts out of his head.

“Time’s up!” Lily said, walking across the room.

Draco opened his mouth to protest. They hadn’t even gotten to the dancing yet. Lily, however, appeared quite determined not to let Draco speak at all. She shook Draco’s hand vigorously, and then handed him a box of Bertie Botts. “See you next week?”

“I--”

“Excellent! We’ll be here at eight o’clock.” Lily dragged her father out of the room. 

Draco remained where he was, watching them leave. He opened the box of Bertie Botts and popped a bean in his mouth. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?

-

One week later, Draco returned to the ballroom to find Lily and Harry reviewing what Draco had covered the week before. The trouble was, Lily couldn’t quite reach Harry's arms. “No, like this,” she said, trying to mimic the proper posture. “Dad, that’s not what I’m doing _at all_.”

Draco walked across the room and moved Potter’s arm into the correct position. Having a legitimate excuse to actually _touch_ Harry was not helping. It was not helping matters at all.

“Oh thank goodness,” Lily sighed. “We’re saved.”

Draco had come prepared this time. He was wearing thin black gloves, which were already drastically helping with the touching situation. Lily skipped back over to her tapestry, and Draco spent most of the lesson explaining the concept of musical beats and measures. 

“I heard your last potion went...er... _wrong_.” Potter looked up at Draco with concerned eyes as they prepared to practice a step. Merlin, Potter was actually _looking_ at him. In his eyes. Directly.

Draco swallowed his heart, which had inconveniently decided to lodge itself in his throat.

“Yes.”

“You’re...okay then?” Potter’s hand twitched against his back beneath his shoulder blade. "You're not hurt?"

“Correct.” Draco tried to return their focus to the waltz by stepping forward, but Harry was rooted like a tree; Draco did nothing but press their legs together. He quickly stepped back again. "I'm fine, thanks to Granger."

“Good," Harry nodded. "That’s good. I'm sorry, I...I should have been there. I just needed...some time. To figure some things out.”

Lily was watching them from the side of the room, grinning ear to ear. She and Draco made eye contact, and she quickly hid behind her Charms book.

"Let's try this again, Potter," Draco sighed, trying to bring Harry's focus back to the waltz. If Harry stopped looking at him like that, Draco would be less tempted to fall to his knees at Harry's feet and pour his entire heart out. "One, two, and --"

-

The absolute last thing Draco had ever expected was for Potter's children to invent creative ways to get Harry and Draco in the same space. If Draco didn't know any better, he'd think they were actively _scheming_ to bring Draco and Harry together.

After James’ initial reaction to Draco's supposed love for Harry on the battlements, Draco never thought James would actually _approve_ of Draco’s interest in his father, much less actually encourage them to confront each other. Yet James often tried to lure them outside with the possible threat of another dementor or Dark Mark. Of course, there were never actually any dementors or Dark Marks, but Draco and Harry still had to make silent rounds together until they were sure that the grounds were safe. It wasn’t just James, either. Albus decided to belatedly accept Draco’s offer of flying lessons, and always insisted on a day when Potter was practicing seeker skills with James and Lily on the other half of the pitch. And then of course there was Lily, their waltzing warden, who was constantly eyeballing them hopefully behind her Charms homework. 

Not that it did any good. 

Draco was leaving, and he didn't want to make his departure any more difficult than it needed to be. Becoming more involved with Harry would only make leaving harder.

April went by quickly, and already Draco and Harry found themselves at their very last waltzing lesson.

Harry's dancing skills had improved greatly under Draco's guidance, but he still had some difficulty with timing. When Harry tried to lead _again_ in the middle of a beat, Draco stopped and gave him yet another lecture about musical technicality. He could almost _see_ Potter’s mind drifting away, so he decided to take a different approach. “You have to _feel_ it, Potter. Like you feel a Patronus. Like you feel a broom.” Before Draco could consider the consequences, he tapped his bare, uncovered wrist to Harry's for just the briefest surge of golden light. "Like you feel _this_."

Harry looked up at him, his eyes going a little wide. “I miss you,” he blurted on a breath. 

Draco’s heart fluttered.

Potter's voice grew softer, more resolute. “I really _am_ sorry for...that night. I just...I’m scared, honestly. I’ve never really been with a man before, and I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing."

Draco almost laughed. For having no idea what he was doing, Harry had quite expertly sucked his cock. Typical Potter, somehow managing to succeed spectacularly without having the slightest idea what he was doing.

Granted, it had been a very long time since Draco had been with anyone either.

“You wait for the beat, and step here. And here. And here,” Draco said, his voice cold and distant and tactical. Avoid and deflect, that was the goal here.

Potter shook his head. “I know what you’re trying to do, Draco.”

Well, _bollocks_. He hated it when Harry could see right through him.

Harry stepped forward, leaning toward Draco’s ear so that Lily couldn’t hear what he was about to say. Feeling Harry's soft, warm breath against his ear and the slightest graze of fabric grazing against his legs was enough to make Draco's toes curl. “The trouble with all of this is, I want _more,_ " Harry said softly. "That’s the problem. I want more than an incredible wank in a changing room. I want _you._ I want a _relationship_ , Draco. I want a _partner_. And the truth is, I don’t know if you even know what that means. I don’t know if you even know _how_. Because being in a relationship requires openness, and honesty, and dedication, and sometimes a little self-sacrifice. It requires someone who isn’t constantly running away from their bloody emotions!” Potter’s voice had tightened into something of a desperate hiss.

Draco swallowed, suddenly feeling very warm. He had somehow managed to start sweating within the span of five seconds. “I’m not the one who ran away, Potter.” His voice was quiet, but he didn’t bother to whisper.

“I know!" Harry said, his voice tight and tense. He let out a breath and when he spoke again, his voice had returned to a gentle whisper. "I know. I thought you were...that you had...I’m sorry.” Harry lifted his hand and pressed it gently against Draco’s face, touching Draco's jaw and lip, where the hurts that Harry's fist had once left had long since healed. Draco stepped away before he could be seduced by the golden warmth he so desperately missed. By the _Harry Potter_ that he so desperately missed.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you," Harry said, his eyes full of regret. "That I _keep_ hurting you. I swear—I _swear_ to you, Draco, that I will never, _ever,_ hurt you again, or you can drag me to Azkaban yourself.”

“I hardly think they’d take you, Potter.”

“That’s not my point!" Harry threw up his hands, clearly growing exasperated. "Merlin, I don’t know if we should even be _doing_ this. But I want to _try_. I _want_ …” Potter lifted their posture into the guise of a dance step, and then moved his hand until it was at the base of Draco’s neck. Potter trailed his thumb along Draco’s neck beneath his hair, and Draco had to withhold a gasp as golden heat jolted through his entire body. “I want _this_. I want to heal every pain you and I have ever known, to heal every hurt we’ve ever inflicted upon each other, and then some.” Potter stepped back and raked his fingers through his hair. “Bloody hell, do you have any idea what you do to me? With you I’m… You make me feel...” 

“ _Harry_...” Draco wasn’t sure he could listen to more without pieces of himself shattering and flaking to the floor. Draco sighed, running a miserable hand down his miserable face.

This wasn’t the plan, he reminded himself. The plan had been to get what he came for, and leave. The plan had _not_ been to stay in the country. The plan had _not_ been to get involved with anyone. The plan had _not_ been to fall for Harry Potter. In fact, the plan had _not_ involved Harry Potter in any way. It hadn't involved flirting with Harry Potter, or kissing Harry Potter, or sharing a very steamy night in the Quidditch changing rooms with Harry Potter. It _certainly_ hadn’t involved Harry Potter standing before him in a ballroom, pouring his heart out and begging Draco to... _be with_ him? Merlin, to be his _partner_? After six months of barely-even-dating it felt foolishly rushed, and yet after 22 years of _there’s always been something between us_ it felt foolishly delayed. Still, it wasn’t the plan. The plan had most certainly _not_ been to try and settle down—especially not with his former archenemy, of all people. He knew all that.

...Then why was this so hard? Why was there such a tightness swelling up in his throat? Why did he feel like he was being ripped open and _burning_ from the inside? He looked toward the window. Even though it was late April and flowers had already begun to bloom, it was snowing outside. Feathery swirls of frost were forming against the glass. It looked cold, and comfortable, and familiarly Malfoyan. “I’m leaving, Potter.” _Fuck, he actually said it._

“What?” Potter stepped back.

“At the end of the term. I’m leaving. I’ll be continuing my potions research in Cairo.”

“Oh,” Potter said, nodding. He didn’t sound angry or even very surprised, and for some reason that was causing something in Draco’s chest to pinch unbearably.

"Time's up!" Lily said, and Potter quickly crossed the ballroom floor and stepped out of the room.

Lily marched over to Draco, her lips pursed out to her nose in an unhappy pout. She reluctantly handed him a box of Bertie Botts, then kicked Draco in the shin and ran out of the room before he could even say “ow.”

Draco walked toward the window and looked out into the snow. He studied the ice crystals on the glass, the pale snowflakes piling against the window. They were cold, and calculating, and beautiful from a distance, but if you got too close and lingered too long they could hurt you. This was what being a Malfoy meant. This was who he _was._

...Wasn’t it? 

He wasn’t sure he knew anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! First of all, thank you SO much for all your support on this fic so far. It has already surpassed anything I could have hoped for and I am thrilled that you seem to be enjoying it.
> 
> Unfortunately, it turns out that these later chapters are requiring more editing work than I was expecting. Rather than deprive you of daily updates, I may need to split some of them in half (like this one) depending on what I can accomplish each day. I will keep posting daily around the same time, but the chapter lengths and overall chapter count may change a little as I go. We'll get to the end, I promise! <3

Draco had managed to compartmentalize Potter completely over the last few months. The Potter box, with all of his Potter emotions, was tucked safely away in a corner of his brain, never to be opened again.

...Then the last waltzing lesson happened, and his Potter box threatened to blow open. Draco carefully picked up every stray piece of his wounded heart, stuffed it back into the Potter box, and sealed it tight. With sticking charms. And nails. And more sticking charms. And then he mentally had a giant sit on it, just in case none of that was enough.

Potter apparently lacked this skill. 

Draco knew what to do with an arrogant Potter. He knew what to do with an angry Potter, and a brainless Potter, and a violent Potter. Now he even knew what to do with a breathless Potter. But he did _not_ know what to do with a miserable Potter. And that was the version of Potter he was stuck with all week.

During meals Potter had a tendency to shove food around his plate while looking as pathetic as possible. He still spent a lot of time with his children, and Draco caught him smiling during Quidditch lessons a few times, but it was rarely that stupid, mouth-open Potter grin of joy. If they had to interact at all, Potter was very good about avoiding Draco’s eyes and keeping his tone as unaffected as if he were talking to a brick wall. He kept quiet during any interaction they had, and never so much as looked toward Draco when he entered the Great Hall.

So imagine Draco’s surprise when, during the last faculty meeting of the year, Potter entered the room and chose not to sit next to Granger and Weasley. Instead, he sat in the chair immediately to Draco’s left, which had been otherwise unoccupied for the entirety of the year. Draco tried not to flinch. Or move. Or breathe. If he inhaled, he might accidentally catch Harry's scent and that would undoubtedly be a death sentence to the giant sitting on his mental Potter box.

The Hogwarts term was ending early that year in honor of the fifteen-year-anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort. The term was ending a whole _month_ early, in fact, which meant that Draco was scrambling to finish everything that needed finishing. There had been tests to proctor, parchments to grade, and final research to perform. It had been an absolutely chaotic couple of weeks, and Draco was relieved that it was almost over.

“I wanted to remind all of you,” Granger began. “That the term will finish unusually early next week, so that students can join their families at the Victory over Voldemort celebration in London. Are there any questions or concerns?”

Draco had a concern, but it wasn’t something he was about to vocalize. Potter, in the chair next to him, suddenly felt the need to occupy an exorbitant amount of space. His elbows flailed out toward Draco’s chair. His knee pressed against Draco’s thigh. Draco shifted as subtly and quietly as he could to the right, but Potter’s knee and elbow seemed determined to follow him. When Draco was pressed so far to his right that there was literally nowhere else to go, Potter dipped an arm beneath the table and grazed a finger against Draco’s knee. Even without bare skin, pleasure ran straight up Draco’s spine; he almost hissed out loud as he yanked his knee away. Luckily Potter did not attempt to touch him again, although his knees and elbows still knew nothing of personal space.

As soon as the meeting finished, Draco jumped out of his seat. He refused to look at Potter. He refused to acknowledge that Potter had even sat next to him, which had been such an odd occurrence in and of itself that Draco wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Granger!” Draco called before she could leave. “I was hoping to ask a favour of you.”

“What do you need, Draco?”

“I need to catch a portkey to Cairo on the morning of May Second in London, but it just so happens that all of the hotels are completely booked for the celebration. I overheard Weasley say that you had reserved a section of rooms specifically for Hogwarts staff. Do you have anything left for the night of May First?”

Granger bit her lip, picked up a folder on the table and began flipping through parchment. “Yes,” she smiled, tucking her quill over her ear. “Yes, I believe we do. You’re welcome to travel with us, and we can promise you a safe place to stay.”

“Thanks, Granger,” Draco said, offering his hand. "I really appreciate it."

She took his hand and shook it. “Are you sure you have to leave? The students have been thriving under your tutelage. I can’t believe how much Albus has come out of his shell, and--”

“Thank you for the offer, Granger, but I really can’t stay.” The sanity of his heart depended on it.

Granger sighed. “Very well. I’ll miss our talks over tea.”

“I will too, Granger,” he said, surprised that he wholeheartedly meant the words. “It’s been an unexpected pleasure.”

Draco never would have thought that Harry Potter's friends would become _his_ friends. It was the last thing he'd expected when he'd come to Hogwarts. ...And, he suspected, one of the first things he would miss.

-

Despite all of his attempts to remove points, Gryffindor still won the House Cup that year. Typical.

After his final class had finished, Draco packed his clothes and research supplies. He didn't own very much; it made traveling easier. Well, he _owned_ a mansion, technically, but that was another matter entirely. It was far easier to keep his life simple, since he was constantly packing it away.

Granger had let him keep the potions he'd studied that year in case he wanted to do any more research on them, so he added those to his belongings. He had agreed to owl her with any interesting findings.

Draco turned his desk back into an oversized green armchair and took one last look around his living quarters. He would miss it, he realized, even though he didn’t usually miss places. He would miss that mountain of silk pillows and all of that posh, green space. He would miss his fountain of vermouth, which was somehow still going strong after all of these months. At the rate it was going, Draco could easily see it running for _years_. It would probably be very difficult to explain to whomever occupied the room after him, but he had grown kind of fond of the silly thing. Maybe the next occupant would too. Draco wasn’t sure he would even be able to sleep anymore without silk pillows and the sound of trickling vermouth at night. He would find out soon enough, he supposed. He slung his dragon-leather satchel over his shoulder, took one last look at his rooms, and made his way outside.

-

Draco tried to keep to himself on the train back to London, but eventually Lily sauntered into his compartment. She sat next to him without saying a word, leaned her head on his arm, and fell asleep. Draco blinked at the wall, quite dumbfounded. Even after all of his attempts to keep them at a distance, Potter's children had wrapped themselves around his heart _too_ , and he hated it. Albus poked his head into the compartment a few minutes later and sat across from Draco with a book. James followed shortly thereafter, noisily dropping into the seat next to Albus.

“You know,” James murmured after a while, crossing his arms and looking out the window. “I think we _all_ would have liked it if you’d stayed.”

-

When they arrived in London, Draco silently followed the Hogwarts crowd to the hotel. It was a very nice hotel. Draco wasn't sure why he hadn't thought about it before, but _of course_ they would be staying at an upscale hotel. After all, he was in the company of the Golden Trio: the grand celebration’s guest of honor and two honored guests. Of _course_ they were going to be treated like kings and queens. It had just been a very long time since _Draco_ had been treated as such.

Draco sat in the hotel lobby and admired his surroundings while Granger talked to the hotel receptionist. Everywhere he looked, there were gilded mirrors and candelabras and fancy chandeliers and sofas with clawed feet. At one time in his life, this style of living was to be expected. It was normal. Anything less had been deplorable. Now he took in the sights, enjoying the colours and architecture as the treasures they were. When the Hogwarts crowd started moving again, Draco was on his feet. Some lingering faculty members drifted away with keys in their hands, but Draco wasn’t in any hurry to get his. He was enjoying the scenery. He was enjoying his last few moments in good company.

He cringed when Rose and Lily suddenly began scream-squealing because Granger, Weasley, and Potter had allowed all of their children to share their own suite, which absolutely thrilled them. Draco couldn't help but smile; their energy was practically contagious.

Draco followed Granger, Weasley, and Potter upstairs, waiting for Granger to have a free moment to give him the key to his room. But Granger and Weasley appeared to be going to _their_ room, and Granger still hadn’t said a word about Draco’s key.

Draco cleared his throat. “Granger? You said--”

“Oi!” Weasley said, turning around as if forgetting he and Potter had been standing there. “Really, _really_ bad news mates,” Weasley said almost conspiratorially, holding up a single key. “We found you a room, Malfoy, but you’ll have to share.” Weasley threw the key to Potter, who was looking dumbfoundedly at Ron, but still caught the key as instinctively as he would catch a golden snitch. Potter blinked down at the key, while Draco stared at it in horror. This was going to royally cock up his mental Potter box, he just knew it.

Harry walked down the hall to the adjacent door with a reluctant Draco trudging behind. Draco awkwardly adjusted his satchel and tapped his feet while Harry unlocked the door and pushed it open. They stepped past the threshold, but that was about as far as they got before they froze, just inside the doorway.

Before them was a large, elegant room with a small kitchen, a large mirror, a desk, a sofa, and a coffee table. Nearly everything in the room was gilded and glittering. It was clean and lovely, but that’s not what had captured Draco’s attention. What had captured Draco’s attention was the fact that the room had only one bed. One very large, beautiful bed.

“Err...huh,” Potter mumbled, scratching his fingers through his hair.

Weasley shoved his way between Draco and Potter and slapped them both on the back. He saw the bed, slowly grinned, and then erupted into mischievous laughter. When he saw Potter and Draco both glaring at him, he cleared his throat and sobered his expression. “That’s uh...that’s unfortunate, mates.” He patted Harry on the shoulder. “I’d offer to help, but I wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a bed with Malfoy, and he sure as hell is not sharing a bed with my wife, even if he does prefer blokes. You’ll just have to grin and bear it, I’m afraid. Tough luck, chaps. See you at dinner!” With that, Weasley left the room and their hotel room door slammed closed.

Draco and Harry were completely alone. The silence was palpable as Draco fully surveyed the room with dread.

Draco was stuck sharing a room--a _bed_ \--with Harry Potter.

This was going to be an interesting last night. Or at least a very, very difficult one.

He was doomed.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Harry finally sighed, setting down his bag. “You need the loo?”

“No.”

Potter disappeared into the bathroom and Draco heard running water shortly thereafter. Draco stood in the room, feeling a little strange. He was leaving for Cairo in the morning. He used to love Cairo. There were some unknowns surrounding Egypt’s Revolution, yes, but that wasn't enough to stop him from going. Why wasn’t he looking forward to it as much as he had been expecting? 

Draco dropped his bag against the sofa and sat down. On closer inspection, the sofa was not as comfortable as it appeared to be. The cushions sank deeply into it, causing a sharp slab of wood to dig into one’s bum, or back, or whatever body part one was attempting to relax with. Draco had intended to take the sofa merely to avoid sharing a bed with Harry, but that option was looking highly unpleasant.

Draco stared at the bed. He stared out the window. They were fairly high up, and had a beautiful view of London. He had spent a lot of time in London when he was younger. There had been so many parties, so many social events, so many opportunities for political intrigue. He almost missed it, he realized. He'd been running for so long that he had never stopped to think about how much he actually missed certain elements of his past.

Speaking of which: Was dinner that night going to be a formal affair? No one had said. No one had said what time dinner was, either.

“Potter?” Draco tapped his knuckles against the bathroom door. “What time is dinner?”

“I can’t hear you!”

Draco repeated the question, a little louder this time.

“Just open the door!” Potter yelled.

Draco swallowed and reached for the door handle. He hesitated. Took a breath. He pushed the door open ever so slightly. He poked his head into the bathroom. There was a large mirror over a beautiful white sink. The shower happened to be in a large white jacuzzi tub; Draco could just make out the details through the small gap not hidden by the shower curtain. ...The shower curtain that undoubtedly concealed a very naked Harry Potter. Draco swallowed nervously. “Are you going to be long?” he mumbled as if something had suddenly gotten stuck in his throat.

Potter moved into view, still partially behind the shower curtain. "What?"

Malfoy’s stomach turned, and no amount of Harry Potter brain compartmentalizing could help him now. The giant that had been sitting on the Potter box had run away, the nails and sticking charms had come undone, and his Harry Potter emotions were now oozing all over the inside of his brain cavity.

The curtain was angled in such a way that Draco could see the left side of Potter’s chest down to the outer slope of his pelvis, shimmering wet. Potter shifted the weight of his hips. Just slightly. But it was enough to draw Malfoy’s attention. As Draco's eyes traced the glimpse he could see of Harry, from the taut curves of his arms down to the curve of his pelvic bone and the edge of his thigh, something in him ached with longing. He was painfully reminded of the _last_ time he had seen Potter dripping with shower water, and it felt like a lifetime ago.

He feared that the Potter compartment of his brain was completely, irreparably destroyed, threatening to never pack itself away again. 

Draco gulped air and glued his eyes to Potter’s face. Beads of water kept dripping from his hair onto his cheeks and damn it all if Draco didn’t find himself wanting to lick them away. Merlin, he had to _leave_ in the morning. He and Potter were _over,_ if they had even been anything at all. But apparently his dick hadn’t gotten the message. Draco was relieved he had decided to keep his lower half outside of the bathroom. "I said," Draco tried very hard to keep his voice steady, "are you going to be long?"

“That depends,” Potter said, licking water from his lips. _Sodding fucking FUCK._ “On whether or not I can find the soap.”

Draco’s eyes darted to a wrapped bar of soap on the sink, and he pointed to it. Potter squinted. Harry wasn’t wearing his glasses, and probably just saw blurs of white. As Potter leaned out of the shower toward the sink, the curtain shifted further away from his hip, revealing a sharp edge of dark curls. Draco charged into the bathroom in an instant, snatched the soap off of the sink, and handed it to Potter so that he wouldn’t move another millimetre away from that shower curtain. Draco made sure to _drop_ the soap into Potter’s hand, rather than risk their bare hands touching, and marched right back out of the bathroom. He pulled the door tightly closed behind him and collapsed against it.

Curse Granger and Weasley and their damned scheming!

Breathe.

He had to breathe.

He had to get this under control.

When he was finally capable of rational thought again, Draco realized that he _still_ didn't have any answers to his questions about dinner.

He pressed a palm against his crotch to adjust himself and took a staggering breath at the touch, tempted to start wanking like some hormonal teenager.

He knocked again.

“What now?”

Draco poked his head back into the bathroom. Potter leaned out from behind the shower curtain again, soaping his arms and shoulders. Draco felt every muscle in his body clench as he stared at the suds cascading down Harry's skin. “What time is dinner? I’ll need a shower when you’re done.” He'd need more than a shower, if he was being honest with himself.

Potter nibbled on his lower lip and Draco thought that he might come untouched, right then and there. “Six, I think they said. I’ll be done in a minute.” Harry disappeared behind the curtain again.

 _Breathe_. “What should I wear? I didn’t bring anything formal.”

“Malfoy," Harry called from behind the curtain. "Your entire wardrobe is formal."

“Not _dress robes_ formal.”

“Just pick something. You’ll be fine.”

Draco retreated from the bathroom and closed the door. Loudly. He had intended to wait until he was at least in the privacy of the shower before he began wanking, but the second sight of Potter had pushed him too far. He leaned against the bathroom door and could practically hear Potter soaping himself. He dug his hand into his trousers and pulled himself off right there in their hotel room. When he finished, he cast a shameful cleaning charm and stared hopelessly at the ceiling.

It was just one night.

He could survive one bloody night with Harry Potter. 

Couldn’t he?


	12. Chapter 12

After his shower and some cosy drying charms, Draco emerged from the bathroom wearing a pale green shirt, a silver waistcoat and trousers, and a dark green tie and suitcoat. He wore his pale hair partially up in a slim ponytail, letting the rest fall long and loose over his shoulders.

Potter, who was bravely attempting to sit on the sofa, was wearing starched black trousers and a royal blue button-up shirt with a shimmering white tie. His dark hair was still a little damp, but it was combed in an attempt to make it look less wild. He looked absolutely delicious even _with_ his clothes on. Draco was so thoroughly, completely fucked.

“It’s rubbish,” Draco said, nodding toward the sofa. 

“I’m tempted to cast an Incendio and put it out of its misery. It’s not even worth sitting on. There is not a single place to sit on this sofa that doesn’t bring about physical pain. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Potter lightly bounced up and down on another area of the sofa and grimaced. “I would’ve expected better from a place that looks this posh.”

“Quite." Draco briefly pulled a stopwatch from his waistcoat and glanced at the time. "Well. Shall we go to dinner, 'Grand Guest of Honour?' Don't want to keep your fans waiting.” Draco bowed and exaggeratedly offered his arm as a joke. When Harry stood and actually wove their arms together, however, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. It felt perfect. 

-

Unsurprisingly, the restaurant was just as elegant as the rest of the hotel. The scent of fresh bread and grilled vegetables filled the air, and Draco's stomach growled. He'd been been so focused on trying to ignore his attraction to Potter all afternoon that he hadn't realized how hungry he was. ...Or at least he hadn't realized how hungry he was for actual _food_ , rather than one Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Draco and Harry were the last to arrive; Granger, Weasley, and the gaggle of children were already seated and waiting for them. There were several additional Hogwarts faculty members sitting toward one end of the table and two members of the Ministry of Magic sitting toward the middle, across from the only two remaining seats. Draco reflexively pulled his arm away from Harry as they approached the two chairs between Granger and Albus. The last thing he wanted was to make Harry appear less respectable to Ministry members by being on Draco's arm.

“Mr. Potter!” One of the Ministry members stood, eagerly extending a hand. “Oh, Mr. Potter. Thomas Wilson, at your service. It is _such_ a pleasure, sir. _Such_ a pleasure, indeed. As planned, we wanted to meet with you tonight to review tomorrow’s schedule.”

Harry took the man's hand. "Er...yes. Thank you."

“Angelica Randhawa," said the other Ministry member, extending a hand to Harry. "Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said, “for agreeing to this. Everyone is so _very_ pleased that you’re back. It is _such_ an incredible honour, sir, I cannot even begin to tell you.”

Draco sat down. He could practically _feel_ Potter’s discomfort at the simple praise.

It suddenly occurred to Draco that Harry had been hiding behind the wards of Hogwarts for so long--intentionally, with the rare exception of Auror work--in his attempt to recover from the tragedy of his wife’s death that this may very well have been his first public outing since he stepped down from his position as Head Auror. Harry had been out of the spotlight for a long time. To be fair, he'd never been particularly good about being _in_ the spotlight to begin with, and now he was completely out of practice.

“And you are?” Angelica Randhawa stared at Draco with guarded curiosity.

Draco floated back to his feet and took her hand as gracefully as though meeting Ministers was something he did every day. Well. It actually _had_ been something he did every day, once upon a time. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, smiling up at her as he kissed the back of her hand. “A pleasure, Ms. Randhawa.”

“Oh!” she said, sounding a little surprised as she batted her smiling eyes. “Oh, of course, Mr. Malfoy. I had the pleasure of working with your father.” The... _pleasure_ of working with his father? Had she even _known_ his father? The only possible conclusion was that she must have worked with his father after the war, during that brief time when his father had tried to redeem his mistakes and push beneficial legislation through the Ministry before both of his parents had given up attempts at rejoining society completely and moved to France. Certainly before the war, no one would describe working with his father as _a pleasure_. At least in Draco's eyes, his father had never been much of a pleasure _after_ the war, either. "I greatly look forward to working with you as well." Before Draco could clarify that he was leaving in the morning, Mr. Wilson was bellowing at him.

“Mr. Malfoy!” Mr. Wilson said, extending a hand. “It is _so_ good to see you back in the country, sir! Word is, your potions research is the envy of the world. I was just talking to the Australian Wizarding Ambassador the other day, and would you believe it? He was trying to claim you as their own, he was. No, I said, we’ve still got him, we have indeed! Will you be taking your father’s place in the Ministry?”

Draco shook the man’s hand, smiling warmly despite feeling a little stupefied. “Perhaps in time, Mr. Wilson. I’ve a portkey to Cairo in the morning," at this he nodded at Ms. Randhawa. "I need to finish my research, you understand.”

“Oh ho! Off again, are we? Well, whenever you do decide to settle down, I hope to be the first to know. No, I won’t have Australia laying claim to you, not a mind like yours, you know!” 

Draco felt as if he had just caught a golden snitch. Wasn’t this exactly what he had always _wanted_? He was faced with two members of the Ministry--one of whom even remembered his father--and there was no talk of Dark Lords or Death Eaters or Dark Marks or past mistakes. There was no judgment, no suspicious glares. Had enough time finally passed? Had he finally rebuilt the Malfoy name? He must have, because he was being praised for his merits and research, rather than being judged for his past. He was being _invited_ back to the Ministry, for fuck's sake. _Invited_. Wizarding ambassadors for entire countries were trying to _claim_ him for their own? He settled into his seat next to Potter, hardly sure what to do with himself.

As they worked their way through the courses of the meal, the Ministers reviewed Harry’s schedule for the following day. Mr. Wilson gave Harry a map outlining all of the locations that allowed a guest to magically enter into the location of the old wizarding palace, along with the locations of each nearby hidden wizarding shopping district. Draco busied himself with his meal as he listened to the Ministers give Harry his list of duties, expectations, etc., etc.

When the meal had finished and the plans for the following day had been thoroughly covered, Mr. Wilson finished his fourth sherry and scooted forward in his seat. “Mr. Potter, I’ve always wanted to ask: do you _really_ have the Elder Wand? Does it actually exist?”

“Well...er...yes, but I...um…” Draco had been leaning back in his chair far enough to see that Harry’s knees began banging together uneasily beneath the table. Harry's feet were squirming back and forth as he nervously ran his palms up and down his thighs. He was clearly uncomfortbale, and had no desire to talk about the Elder Wand.

Draco sat forward in his seat. “The Elder Wand no longer has a master,” he offered. “Potter came to the conclusion that it was far too dangerous a weapon for any Witch or Wizard, and he didn’t want its power to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Oh yes, very grave indeed. Certainly not. Of course you wouldn’t want to give any more power to the Death Eaters, Mr. Potter. Especially after seeing your wife murdered before your very eyes! Terrible! However did you manage it?”

Draco could feel Harry stiffen beside him, could see his fingers tightening around his knees. Draco pressed his hand gently to Harry’s thigh. “Of course it’s difficult, Mr. Wilson, you understand. Although speaking of managing, how is the economy in the Herbology sector these days? I’ve heard it can be as volatile as a Hungarian Horntail. A difficult Herbology market can make life difficult for a Potions Master, you understand.”

Draco felt Harry relaxing beneath his hand.

“Oh ho! Indeed, Mr. Malfoy, indeed!” As Mr. Wilson dove extensively into the topic of Herbology economics, Harry actually reached down, took Draco’s hand beneath the table, squeezed it once, and didn’t let go.

Eventually, everyone else left the table except for Harry, Draco, Granger, Weasley, and the children. They had repositioned themselves so that they were all sitting a little closer to each other, and Weasley was telling some ridiculous story about something that had happened during a Quidditch game that year, but Draco wasn't really paying attention. With a good meal, a good bourbon, and the Ministers’ compliments in his ears, Draco settled back and watched Lily lead her brothers and cousins in a game of Exploding Snap. With Harry at one side, his new friends on the other, and the children laughing across the table, Draco felt like he was part of something. Something important. It wasn’t important in the same sense that being a prefect or winning a Quidditch match or winning a seat in the Ministry was important. It was better. It was important, because for the first time in a long time, he felt _full_. Complete. He almost felt like he had a _family_ again, except this family wasn’t hungry for power, wasn’t obsessed with pureblood relations or the ability to manipulate people. They just _were_. For them, love was enough. For them, _being_ was enough. And Draco found himself wanting to be pulled into it. 

But he had a portkey in the morning.

He was leaving, and none of this was his to have.

Draco scooted his chair out more violently and loudly than he had anticipated, jumping shakily to his feet. “I should get some rest. I have a portkey to catch tomorrow.”

“Yes, we all have an early morning,” Harry agreed, standing. “You three,” Harry pointed to James, Albus, and Lily. “Time for bed.” With the way Lily nodded and grinned in agreement, Draco had a strong suspicion that they would be continuing their game as soon as they returned to their hotel suite.

As Draco followed Harry back to their room, he felt the wires of himself tightening, as though at any moment he would snap. He would return to their room. He would sleep. He would leave in the morning. He repeated this over and over in his mind until he could feel his steely exterior slowly returning, and he felt more comfortable beneath it.

“Thank you,” Harry murmured as he turned the key in their room lock and opened the door. “For tonight. Sometimes I forget that you’re so good at that. That it was your life.”

“Well, someone had to rescue you from your embarrassing performance in front of Wilson.” Draco teased, then sat on the sofa and visibly winced as he leaned down to kick off his shoes.

Harry smiled weakly as he loosened the tie at his neck. “You take the bed.”

“Where are you going to sleep? This sofa isn’t fit for man or beast.” Draco leaned forward on the sofa and shrugged out of his suit coat.

Harry shrugged. “The floor.”

“You are _not_ sleeping on the floor." Draco threw his suit coat over the arm of the sofa and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. 

“Well," Harry scratched the back of his head, "I’m sure the bed is big enough for both of us.” 

“I’ve done a lot of traveling," Draco said, loosening his waistcoat. "It wouldn’t be my first time on a hotel floor.”

“And you think it’s my first time?”

It was the phrasing. Draco knew perfectly well what Harry meant, but his mind drifted to places he knew it shouldn’t. Back in the ballroom at Hogwarts, Harry had already confessed to never being with a man before, hadn't he? _Fuck_. Growing frustrated with his own unstoppable thoughts, Draco marched over to the bed, pulled off the spare blanket, and dropped it to the floor behind the sofa. “The fact of the matter is, the Saviour of the Wizarding World is not sleeping on the floor, especially the night before the grand celebration in his honour. What would everyone say?"

"It's not really in _my_ honour..." Harry muttered.

Draco ignored him. "I would be tarred, feathered, and levitated arse-over-kettle through the square. No.” Draco pulled a pillow off the bed. “You take the bed. I'll take the floor.”

Harry slipped into the bathroom without so much as a word.

“You hear me, Potter?” Draco called. There wasn’t an answer, but Harry emerged a few minutes later wearing Draco’s favourite hideous pyjamas and a pair of plaid cotton boxer shorts. _F_ _ucking fuck._ There was too much skin. There was too much curving, muscled _leg._ Draco's eyes lingered too long before he forced himself into the bathroom. Draco cleaned his teeth and changed into a pair of silk pyjama bottoms before catching his reflection in the mirror and taking a deep breath.

It was one night.

It was just one night.

He could do this.

When Draco stepped back into the room, he found Potter sleeping on the floor, curled in the blanket Draco had left there. “Potter. What are you doing?”

“I told you I’d take the floor.” Harry tilted his head sleepily toward Draco, and his dark hair fell beautifully wild against the white pillow.

_Breathe._

“I never agreed to that. Get the fuck out of my bed.”

“No.”

“Leave. _N_ _ow_ , Potter, before I make you.”

“And how are you going to do that, exactly?” Harry cocked his mouth into a sly, sexy little smirk against his pillow, and Draco knew he had to do something drastic before he fucking lost his mind.

Draco reached for his wand with every intention of forcefully _floating_ Potter out of his bed, but he wasn’t fast enough. Potter had already cast his wandless, silent Accio and Draco’s wand was in Harry's hand. Why did Harry always have to steal his bloody wands?

“Fine,” Draco said grumpily, yanking a pillow off the bed and pulling a spare blanket from a shelf. He threw both on the floor between the bed and the wall, parallel to the bed, and turned out the light. Draco buried his head in his pillow and huffed.

After a few silent minutes in the dark, Potter started laughing.

“What?” Draco barked in the darkness. He was exhausted, annoyed, aroused, and still a little tipsy. He just wanted to sleep. The sooner he could sleep, the sooner he could escape this miserable hotel room and its temptations.

“This is ridiculous, Malfoy.”

“I agree. Now give me back my bed.”

“This is not a bed. It's a _floor_."

“Oh, just shut up, get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.”

For some incredibly irritating reason, this made Potter laugh harder. But at least he was standing up. At least he was moving out of Draco’s so-called bed. No. No. _No._ Harry was walking toward _Draco_ , not the bed itself.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Potter said, straddling Draco's hips in the dark. The dark--thank Merlin for that. Potter was standing over him in the middle of the night wearing an almost identical outfit as the fated morning of the door incident. _Fuck_. “Either we share the floor or we share the bed, and the bed is going to be far more comfortable.”

Through the dark Draco could see Harry extending both hands toward him. Draco hesitated. A small part of him wanted to refuse. He knew that he should refuse. Logic told him to refuse. But another part of him, an admittedly larger part, was eager. Illogical, and ecstatic, and made of butterflies, and eager. This part desperately wanted to share a bed with Potter. To sleep beneath the same blanket as Potter. To wake up contentedly beside him like he _should_ have done that morning in the showers. And this was the part of him that was winning.

Draco sighed and took Potter’s hands, allowing Potter to help him to his feet. Their hands lingered together in the dark long enough for Draco to fully feel the warmth of Potter’s palms pressed against his own. Long enough for the tingling golden heat to fill him to his core. Long enough for Potter’s thumbs to slowly glide across Draco’s knuckles and for Draco's heart to begin beating wildly. Too long. Longer, at least, than any two unattached male colleagues standing next to a bed in the dark should have done much of anything at all. _Breathe_. Draco pulled his hands away and reached down to throw his pillow onto the far side of the bed. 

“Goodnight Potter,” he said as he crawled across the bed, lifted the sheet, stretched his legs out, and went still. Harry crawled silently into bed beside him. The bed was so wide that Draco didn’t even feel the mattress shift beneath his weight. Harry was right. The bed _was_ big enough for both of them. They may as well have been sleeping on different continents. Draco was almost disappointed.

When Draco heard Harry’s breath deepen and even out about fifteen minutes later, he knew Harry had finally drifted to sleep. As exhausted as Draco was, he couldn't sleep. Between the lingering bourbon, the sight of Harry in his boxers, and the golden heat of Harry’s touch in the dark, Draco was as hard as a fucking boulder. He slowly, quietly moved just a little farther from Potter and allowed his hand to drift beneath the sheet and into his silk pyjama bottoms. Draco sighed with pleasure when he wrapped his hand around his cock. He allowed his mind to drift, and it very quickly drifted to the man sleeping next to him. To the feeling of Potter’s thumbs along his knuckles. The feeling of Potter’s hot breath on his face. The sight of him in the shower. The feeling of his amazing mouth on his cock. He began to stroke himself slowly and silently beneath the sheet. He grew closer and closer to climax, until--

Potter's breathing changed.

He stirred. 

_Shit._

Draco fell completely still and felt his cock softening as he flushed from head to toe. The last thing he needed was for Harry to catch him _wanking_ right next to him. That would be embarrassingly difficult to explain.

Potter stirred again. He stretched out his limbs as his right arm traveled beneath the sheet.

...And then Harry did something Draco didn’t expect.

He moaned.

_What the--_

Draco risked a glance to Potter’s face, but Potter’s eyes were either closed, or so downcast that they appeared closed in the dark. But Potter kept… well... _stirring_.

And then Draco realized that the sheets were moving ever so slightly between Potter’s legs.

Draco felt his blood go straight to his cock. Potter was touching himself. Potter was stroking his cock under the sheets. The same sheets as Draco. Right next to him. Well not _right_ next to him, because the bed was enormous, but it was the principle of the thing. _Fucking hell._ Draco was instantly hard again. With a trembling breath he cautiously resumed sliding his hand up and down his own cock, staring at the outline of Potter’s gliding hand beneath the sheet. He couldn’t help himself; he tried to match Potter’s rhythm. When he saw Potter’s hand increase speed, Draco’s hand increased speed. Then Draco reached a second hand into his pyjamas and began stroking his balls, no longer even trying to control his breathing. Harry followed Draco's lead, pushing a second hand beneath the sheet as well.

 _Fuck_. _Yes._

Malfoy groaned. Was Potter imagining what it would be like to have Draco cradling his sacks right now? To have Draco stroking his cock?

Draco risked another glance to Harry's face.

" _Fuck_ ," Draco whispered wantonly.

Harry's eyes were wide open, staring down at Draco's stroking hand. When Harry's eyes flicked to Draco's face, there was no longer any denying what they were doing. Merlin, they were staring right at each other. This had gone way too far, but there was hardly any stopping it now. It felt almost surreal. They were both horny and half-asleep and fucking _wanking_ together.

"Draco," Harry whined. His dark brows furrowed as he breathed heavily and unevenly through his nose.

Potter was going to be the end of him. "Not yet," Draco whispered feverishly, breaking eye contact only once to glance briefly at Harry's frantic movement beneath the sheet.

Harry slowed his hand, pinching his eyes shut.

"Look at me, Harry," Draco demanded.

Harry's eyes shot open.

 _Fuck_. He was going to die. Draco was going to _die._

"Are you--" Harry gasped. "I'm--"

"Now," Draco bit out, trying to hold himself on the edge.

"Draco," Harry's breath hitched and he moaned softly, thrusting his hips upward against the sheet.

 _Fuck_ , he would never get tired of hearing Harry breathily say his name like that. Draco grunted and came messily into his hand. As his body relaxed, he didn’t even bother to remove his damp hand from his pyjamas.

He and Harry stared at each other in the dark, a million unspoken things between them, until Draco's eyelids grew heavy.

Draco was already half asleep when he felt Harry reach across the bed and trace a gentle fingertip down the side of Draco's face. Draco hummed into his pillow as the tingling heat caressed his skin. “Stay,” Harry whispered so quietly that Draco was convinced he was already dreaming. “I wish you’d stay.”

-

Draco woke slowly, not yet ready to open his eyes. He tried to move his hand, but then realized his hand was still trapped in the waistband of his pyjamas. He removed it as he stretched, deciding that his first goal would be to wash the dried mess from his skin. Which, inevitably, indicated that the night before had not been a dream. Which, inevitably, had him remembering the night before. He and Potter had jerked themselves off last night. Together. Simultaneously. Matching every movement. Well, it wasn’t a terrible way to spend his last night in the country. As farewells to Wizarding Britain went, he couldn't imagine anything finer. Draco opened his eyes, but Potter’s side of the bed was empty.

“Morning.”

Draco tiredly leaned up on his elbows to see Harry standing in the corner of the small kitchen, holding a mug of tea. 

“Mmm.” Draco hummed, not quite feeling awake. There was only a dim grey light coming in through the curtains, so it must have been as early as it felt. 

“They have some fancy teas over here if you want a cuppa.”

“I’ll stop by a cafe on my way to the station.”

“It’s alright if I take the hotel key then?”

“You’ll need it for tonight, won’t you?” Draco stirred and allowed his feet to meet the floor as Harry nodded into his tea. Draco made his way to the bathroom sink with his wand in hand, casting a few cleaning charms on himself.

When he emerged, Potter had turned more lights on, which was helping Draco feel a little more awake. Now, at least, he could clearly see that Potter was already showered and dressed in a pale green button-up shirt with a dark green tie draped loosely untied around his neck. A very familiar pale green button-up and dark green tie.

“First my wand and now my _clothes_ , Potter?” His voice was playful.

Harry bit his lip and smiled into his mug. “You don’t mind, do you? I only brought the one shirt. Everything else is t-shirts until I can pick up my dress robes for the day. I wasn’t thinking.” Seeing Potter standing in the early morning wearing Draco's clothes felt almost painful to witness, because a part of him wanted to witness it again, and again, and again. A part that he shoved very forcefully to the back of his thoughts.

“I don’t mind.” Draco crossed the room and stepped into the kitchen area, admiring the way his pale green shirt brought out Harry’s eyes. They were beautifully, deeply green, even behind his spectacles. Draco didn’t know when he’d see those eyes again. _If_ he’d see them again. Draco stepped a little closer to Harry and pushed a wild lock of dark hair back into place. “You look rather fetching in green, Potter. You’d have made a good Slytherin.”

Harry’s eyes were locked on his. “I’ll return it to you. When you get back.” 

Harry ran his hands from Draco’s bare shoulders down his arms and to his hands. As Harry tangled their fingers together, Draco felt himself unraveling. He pulled his hands from Harry's and instead slid them along either side of the familiar green silk tie. “Remember, Potter,” he said as he began to knot Harry's tie, “to relax. Smile through dinner. The guests will be thrilled to simply be in a room with you; you don’t even need to open your mouth. In fact,” Draco smiled, catching Harry’s eyes, “if dinner last night was any indication of how you act in social settings, I’d recommend opening your mouth as little as possible.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“And remember that whomever you choose as your partner for your first dance is of vital importance. It is a matter of social distinction, and will bring the highest honor to your partner. Someone who catches your fancy in the ministry would be a safe match. Ms. Randhawa would be acceptable, if you’re drawing a complete blank.”

“I think she’s engaged.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to snog her; it’s just a dance. As an absolute last resort, you could select Lily--that would be a little unusual, but I’m sure the crowd will find it adorable. Above all else,” Draco flattened Harry's collar back down over the tie, “remember that you are _Harry Potter_. People will follow your lead. You can set whatever trend you wish. If you make a mistake, don’t panic, because even your mistakes will be seen as fashionable. There,” Draco said, wiggling the knot of the tie back and forth. “Your royal subjects await.”

Harry smiled nervously up at him. “I don’t know how you do it. I’m no good at this. You’re sure you can’t stay? Guide me through it?”

“What am I doing now, then?” Draco pressed his hands to Harry’s shoulders, smoothing his palms against the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll be splendid. If you can defeat the bloody Dark Lord, you can survive a handful of politicians.”

Draco lifted Harry's black robe from the back of a chair, and Harry turned to slip his arms into the sleeves. “Politicians are scarier.” 

“And they say _I’m_ the drama queen. Go on, you’ll be late for breakfast.” 

A sadness eased its way into Harry’s emerald eyes and he nodded, his eyes falling to Draco’s bare collarbone.

“So long, Potter,” Draco whispered, holding out a hand. 

Similar to the time Draco had extended a hand in Hagrid's old holding pen, Harry just stared at it. Instead of taking Draco's hand, Harry leaned forward and brushed his lips against Draco’s mouth. It was soft, brief, and just as delightfully unexpected as their first kiss had been; in fact, it was even better because this time Draco knew there were no potions were involved. “Take care of yourself, Malfoy.” When he reached the door, Harry audibly opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then stepped into the hall and quietly latched the door behind him.

Draco reached up and touched his lips, which were rapidly growing cold in the absence of that tingling golden heat. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do one last chapter adjustment. Thanks for your patience, everyone!

Sharing the bed with Harry Potter had been a huge mistake. It only fueled Draco's Harry-hungry brain, and he needed to focus on more practical matters. He needed to focus on leaving. He mentally reviewed all of the reasons _why_ he was leaving, just to remind himself how _much_ of a mistake last night had been. First and foremost: leaving was the _plan_. It had always been the plan. He intended to see it through. In addition, Draco had convinced himself that the only reason Harry wanted _him_ was because, as Harry himself had pointed out, they were probably the last two people on earth who would accept each other for who they were, rather than what they'd _done_. But that meant that Draco was Harry's last resort. Draco didn't want to be anyone's last resort; he was far too proud for that. He would only accept being someone's first choice. Plus, if the night of the dementors was any indication, Draco would inevitably manage to cock things up somehow. Draco would follow the plan. Plans were good. Plans were logical, thoughtful things. Plans were far more reliable than his emotions.

Draco enjoyed a light breakfast at a classy cafe down the street. He sipped an espresso afterward, daring to even read a newspaper. Somehow the prospect of encountering Potter’s face didn’t seem as loathsome as it once had.

The entire newspaper was filled with discussions about the day: schedules, speeches, honoured guests, food offered, items sold, war funds, hopes, concerns. There were photos of Granger, Longbottom, Weasley, and even Weasley’s mother. There were photos of the Minister of Magic and her cabinet. There was a photo of Ms. Randhawa and Mr. Wilson. There was, of course, a large photo of Harry Potter on the front page, featured as the grand guest of honour. There was another article anticipating Potter’s return to society. There was gossip and conjecture. There was a small article addressing concerns about safety; apparently there had been a number of Death Eater threats leading up to the event, but the place would be crawling with Aurors and everything would be securely warded.

When Draco stepped out of the cafe to explore the streets, nearly everyone he passed was excitedly talking about the grand events at the palace. Apparently there had already been a majestic, coordinated flight of hippogriffs and an excellent opening speech by the Minister that morning. The grand guest of honour was shaking hands with the citizenry in the Grand Throne Room. (Draco laughingly wondered if Harry would finally shake his bloody hand if it was his civic _duty_. The man was impossible.) People were gleeful and eager for a chance to meet—to _touch—the Harry_ Potter himself. Later there would be a grand feast in the Grand Hall and grand dancing in the Grand Ballroom. There would be cakes and sweets and fine bubbling wines. Despite the season, the gardens would be blooming with full floral colour, filled with hedge mazes, sculpted topiary, fountains, ponds, and rolling little waterfalls. Later in the evening there would be fireworks and floating candles, and anyone who was anyone would be there. 

Draco supposed it was a good thing he wasn’t anyone anymore.

Still, he couldn’t help but pause in front of a clothier's window. There were stylish dress robes on display and a man being measured inside. As he watched the man, who stood tall and exuded an air of sophistication, he felt a little pinch of envious nostalgia. That had been _him_ once. As he watched the tailor poke and prod and magically measure, Draco felt a prickling of desire for just one piece of his past back.

Dinner last night had been so effortless. What would happen if he _did_ accept Mr. Wilson’s offer? What would happen if he _did_ stay? That would certainly get some lips talking. Draco Malfoy, back in high society. But that wasn't the _plan_. Draco clenched his teeth and turned away from the window. He continued his walk toward the station until he realized that all his feet had done was circle the block. He was standing in front of the same shop window again, with the same dress robes on display. Draco checked his watch. He still had a little time before he needed to be at the station. It couldn’t hurt to simply _browse_. If he found something he liked, what was the harm in buying some new robes before he left London? He stepped inside. The tailor was measuring someone new, and barely looked up as Draco entered. “Do you have any robes that could be ready within the hour?” Draco asked. He may as well travel to Cairo in style. Because that’s all this was for. Cairo.

The tailor simply laughed at him.

“I can take my galleons elsewhere,” Draco snapped.

“It won’t do you any good, sir,” the man said. “Every clothier in London is completely booked. You couldn’t possibly get something _today,_ of all days, unless you already had an appointment.”

Draco sighed and left, the tinkling bell mocking him on his way out. If every clothier was booked, then the decision was made for him. Draco would not be reentering society. Not that night, at least. ...Not that he had considered it. Because the reason for stepping into the shop in the first place had simply been to obtain some new dress robes before leaving for Cairo. _Cairo._ Now, it simply meant that he would not be traveling to Cairo in style.

He had a portkey to catch.

He needed to _leave_ , because that was the _plan_. 

When Draco arrived at the Muggle station, he sidled his way down a hall and, when no Muggles were looking, he stepped through the wall into the portkey station. Gripping his ticket in his hand, he walked into the station's main waiting room. The room contained rows of long, red cushioned benches and a large desk in the center. Two sides of the room opened into two long hallways, where objects of every variety lined the walls. Draco walked down one of the halls until he found his portkey. He touched it.

Nothing happened.

He touched it again.

Still nothing.

Rather than digging for his watch, he cast a quick Tempus charm. He was on time; the portkey should be active. He lifted his eyes to the magical floating numbers and letters that displayed all portkey departures and arrivals. Every portkey had been delayed by several hours. Every. Single. One.

Apparently a trace of dark magic had been discovered on one of the portkeys, and everything was stalled until the Department of Magical Transportation could investigate. On such a significant day, no one wanted to take any risks.

Draco returned to the congested waiting room and found a crooked empty bench against a wall. He sat and closed his eyes. He tried not to let his mind drift, but it did anyway. It drifted to Potter’s hand on his at dinner, the comforting sight of Potter wearing his clothes that morning, and Potter’s soft kiss goodbye. The plan was to leave. Yes, the plan was to leave. Yet somehow, between Mr. Wilson’s invitation to the Ministry and Harry sleepily asking him to stay, leaving felt less important than it once had. In fact, the thought of leaving filled him with a painful, sorrowful emptiness. He kept trying to push the feelings to the back of his mind and pack them away like he usually did, but they refused to budge. Draco decided to review his research journal to distract himself from his thoughts. As he leaned forward to open his dragon leather satchel, however, it tipped onto its side. A small glass vial rolled out of the front pocket and onto the floor. Draco snatched it up and stared. 

It was the last potion. The missing potion. Potion Nine. Draco had no memory of placing it in his satchel with his other belongings. He had no memory of doing anything with it at all. If it really _had_ been in his satchel the whole school year, it should have responded to his summoning spells. Yet here it was, gleaming at him. A bit of a mystery, that. He could only assume that Potter or one of his scheming children had stolen it temporarily to delay his potions progress and then returned it by slipping it into his bag when they left Hogwarts the day before.

Draco knew it was stupid. He knew it was stupid and completely irresponsible. But right now, he felt empty and pained and just wanted to feel something else. He had three hours to kill anyway. He lifted the potion and allowed one tiny drop to fall onto his tongue. One. The smallest dose possible. The effects, if he felt them at all, would barely last for a few hours. In theory.

If it was deadly, at least he was surrounded by people. Surely one of them would notice his imminent demise and call for help.

Draco allowed the drop to slide down his throat.

He closed his eyes, waiting. 

At first he felt nothing.

And then he felt a rush of cold air. When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t at the portkey station anymore. He wasn’t even in London anymore. He was back at Hogwarts. But it wasn’t Hogwarts like he knew it now. It was Hogwarts _then_. He knew because he was standing next to a younger version of himself as Professor Snape gave a potions lecture. He stared at his younger self. His short pale hair was slicked tightly back, and he was scrawling neat notes onto a slim piece of parchment. Draco lifted his hand, and it traveled directly through the potions table. He waved his hand in front of his younger self’s face, but nothing happened. Not the slightest acknowledgment. He was some sort of ghost then. A ghost of himself, witnessing memories of the past. 

He'd spent fifteen years running from the past, and now he was stuck in it. Bloody fantastic.

Draco wandered through the old hallways, not even sure where he was going until he rounded a corner and found himself facing Headmaster Dumbledore. Draco suddenly felt like someone had stabbed him in the chest. Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore. Draco had been commanded to kill this man. And, in a final lesson, this man had taught him that he wasn’t capable of killing. Dumbledore had taught Draco that there was always _hope,_ no matter how impossible a situation seemed. Draco swallowed tightly. This Dumbledore was chatting with Professor McGonagall about the welfare of the students with dementors floating about. 

Third year then. 

He had gone back to third year. 

Classes must have ended, since students began scurrying all over the place. How young and optimistic they all were. How completely unaware of what they would soon have to face. How many of these industrious students would never have the opportunity to graduate? How many would be dead within five years?

If this potion _was_ a Fountain of Youth, it wasn’t what he had expected. This effect didn’t match any of the descriptions of the ancient texts. It was possible that it was a different type of Fountain of Youth altogether, one that intended to inflict mental torture upon him.

Draco walked, aimless and invisible, through the Hogwarts halls for most of the afternoon. 

He eventually passed the younger version of himself leaving the Slytherin common room, walking between Greg and Vincent. Draco lingered, watching Vincent with a mournful heart. He watched the way the young Draco openly mocked Vincent's stupidity. How little he knew then. How little they all knew.

Draco wandered back to the potions classroom and watched his godfather. Snape cleaned potions messes from tables with quick flicks of his wand. When he was finished, Snape retreated to his office and organized books on his shelves before stocking potions ingredients for the next day’s classes. There were so many things Draco wished he could have said, but never did. There were so many things he _still_ wanted to say.

...But there was nothing Draco could say that this Snape would hear. Draco left the room before his regret could overwhelm him. 

And then he saw Potter.

Through the small, high window in the hall, Draco could see Harry walking into the keep alone. Draco ran. He ran and ran toward the main entrance until he was standing right in front of Potter, smiling as though Harry could see him, smiling as if he could say hello. Harry stormed right through him and Draco didn’t even feel a thing. He followed Potter through the halls, through the Fat Lady, through the Gryffindor common room and into Potter’s empty dorm room. 

Once inside, a furious young Harry slammed the door behind him, cried out with a loud sob and kicked his bedpost. So kicking bedposts was an old habit, then.

What day was this? What had happened to make him so upset?

Young Potter sat on his bed and punched his mattress once. Twice. A small snowy owl landed in the window with parchment in its beak. Harry looked up. “I wish Buckbeak had ripped him to pieces, Hedwig!” Harry was back on his feet again, pacing back and forth. “It’d serve him right! Why can’t he just—” Harry took the letter from the owl during one of his bouts around the room, but slapped it on a desk and didn’t bother reading it. He tore himself out of his robes in a violent huff, packed them into a tight ball between his angry hands, and threw them across the room as hard as he could with a yell. Apparently that wasn’t enough, so he pulled one shoe off and threw it against the wall with all of his strength, and then the other. Apparently none of this violence was terribly unusual, because the owl seemed completely unfazed. “I hope he gets eaten by a thousand hippogriffs, for all I care!” Potter yelled, opening a tin and producing a treat. The owl took it, accepted a frustrated pat on the head, and flew off.

Potter jumped back onto his bed and violently closed his bedcurtains. Draco walked right through them as Potter collapsed backward onto his pillow. Potter was crying. Why the hell was Potter crying? What had happened? 

“Stupid, stupid _Malfoy_!” 

...Oh. Apparently _he_ had happened. Potter punched the mattress again. Clearly Potter’s temper hadn’t changed much. 

“Argh!” Potter shouted with a sob, kicking at the air. “Stop it, stop it, what is wrong with you?” he yelled, apparently to himself now, since the rest of the room was empty and the owl was gone. Harry even punched _himself_ once in the chest with his free hand. The boy took a few shaky breaths and then he closed his eyes and pressed his face into the crook of his arm while he tried to steady his breath.

Draco couldn’t really sit; he was sort of floating. He was standing next to Potter, in the middle of Potter’s bed, with the bed coming up to his thighs as though he were standing in water. Draco watched Potter breathe until he was convinced he was asleep.

As it so happened, Potter wasn’t asleep. With one arm still over his face, Potter’s free hand slipped into his trousers.

Draco blinked and turned away. Potter's age was somewhere between 13 and 15, and he was 33, and he wasn’t about to stay there and _watch_ because it felt creepy as hell, even if it _was_ just some ghostly glimpse into the past. Yes, somewhere in the castle was a version of himself at the same age as this particular Potter. And yes, this particular Potter would inevitably become the man who would spectacularly suck his cock on the floor of the Quidditch changing room and wear his shirts and kiss him goodbye. However, as desperately as he wanted to be near Harry, _his_ Harry, this version wasn’t that man _yet_. 

Draco stepped outside of Harry's bed curtains, internally debating how long it would take for a hormonal teenager to finish a wank and where else he should wander in the meantime. All of his thoughts abruptly stopped when he heard Potter softly moan a single word behind him.

Draco’s neck snapped back around with renewed curiosity, his eyes focused on the fabric of Harry's bed curtains, his ears alert. Had Potter just said what he thought he'd said?

Harry made a soft noise, a little high-pitched and in the back of his throat. “Draco,” he whimpered again. 

Ho. ly. Shit. Potter had said exactly what he thought he'd said.

Potter was wanking while moaning Draco’s name. Not Malfoy. _Draco_. 

Draco stalked back into the Gryffindor common room. His mind was racing.

When Draco had told Harry _there’s always been something between us,_ he didn’t quite expect _this._ He didn’t expect to be so _accurate_. He certainly knew how _he_ felt about Harry, and it had taken him _years_ to come to terms with it. But he had never actually expected Harry to feel the same way, and he _certainly_ never expected Harry to be so aware of his emotions at that age—so conflicted about Draco, even then, that he could be a mess of anger one moment and wanking to the thought of him the next.

Draco felt his heart clench painfully inside of his chest. This was third year. This was before Voldemort had really risen, before Draco and Harry had gotten swept up in it, and before Harry had fallen in love with Ginny Weasley.

Even before all of that, Harry had fantasized about Draco. He'd fantasized that they could be Draco and Harry rather than Malfoy and Potter. The Harry he'd left in the next room seemed so young and _vulnerable_ that all Draco wanted to do was pull Harry into his arms, kiss his forehead, and hold him tight. In this stage of Potter’s life, Draco had been nothing but cruel and insensitive, delighting in every opportunity to get under Harry's skin by bullying him and his friends. Yet despite everything, Harry was still _interested_ in him for some inexplicable reason. He was interested in Draco, even when Draco had been at his worst. This whole bloody time, through the war and all of it, Harry had _fancied_ him.

Maybe Draco wasn't Harry's last resort at all. Maybe Harry wanted to be in a relationship with Draco because he had _always_ wanted Draco. Maybe Harry had wanted Draco before he'd wanted anyone else.

Fuck.

He was an idiot.

He was such a fucking idiot.

Why was Draco even leaving, anyway? He wasn't sure anymore. He was running because he always ran. He was leaving because he always left. He was rebuilding the Malfoy name, because that's what needed to be done. ...But he'd been invited back to the Ministry, hadn't he? The Malfoy name had already been restored. Well, in that case, he was leaving because he needed to continue his research. ...Research that could be completed almost anywhere once he collected the resources he needed. Well, then he was leaving because that was the _plan_. That had always been the plan.

But the plan had been made before Harry Potter reentered his life.

The plan had been made before his heart had wrapped itself fully and completely around one man.

The plan had originally been designed to keep Draco focused and productive, rather than wallowing in misery and regret. But now the plan was _causing_ his misery and regret.

The truth was, he didn't really want to leave. He didn't want to leave at all.

Screw the fucking plan.

He needed to go back to Harry, _his_ Harry: the Harry who dragged his thumbs across his skin, the Harry who breathed ragged against his mouth, the Harry who stammered like a fool, the Harry who looked at him with concern and affection. The Harry who filled him with golden light.

How could he have _ever_ thought that anything else was more important?

Bloody hell, he needed to go back _now_. 

...But how? He was stuck in the past until the potion wore off. Until then, he had absolutely no control. Did time work the same between this vision and reality? Was he still in the station at this very moment? How long would he be trapped in this ghostly past, far away from the man he so desperately wanted to pull into his arms?

Draco ran back to the potions classroom. Maybe if he stood in the exact same spot where he had entered this vision and wished himself back…?

Nothing happened. 

He didn’t want to have to _wait_ for the potion to take its course. That could be hours, that could be an _eternity_ , and he wanted to get back to Harry. _Fuck_. This wasn’t working. He was trapped. 

He found his younger self studying in the Slytherin common room. He tried touching his younger self. He tried standing in the same space as his younger self. That didn’t work either. Nothing worked. He tried test after test, and nothing changed. 

Finally, he went back to Potter’s room and sighed, allowing himself to sink to the floor by Harry’s bed. Harry was sleeping now, and even this younger version of Harry looked like _home._

Draco lifted a finger to pull the dark hair out of Harry’s eyes before he remembered that it wouldn't do any good. He wished he could console this younger version of Harry. He wished he could tell Harry that, despite everything that was ahead and all of the people he would lose, he would be okay. It would never be easy, but it would be okay. He wanted to tell this Harry that Draco wouldn’t always be young and stupid and cruel. Someday, Draco would be there to hold him, and they would… they would what? Be together? They weren’t together. Draco had left, even though Harry had asked him to stay. _Twice_.

Draco closed his eyes. “Please, Harry,” he whispered. “Please let me come back to you.”

Nothing happened, and Draco hated how trapped he felt. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting himself drift to sleep beside Harry.

-

When Draco felt another rush of air, his eyes shot open. The portkey station's waiting room shimmered like the surface of a lake and, even though Draco felt a little out of sorts, he was _back_. He was lying sideways on a bench in the waiting room, and no one gave him a second glance. The potion must have triggered some kind of dream state. He was _back._ Draco sat up and pulled out his watch. He had only been gone for four hours. Thank Merlin. He had missed his portkey, but that didn’t matter. He no longer had any intention of taking it.

He knew exactly what he had to do.


	14. Chapter 14

The idea of apparating to Malfoy Manor didn’t exactly thrill Draco. The Manor still felt tainted in his mind, but it was the only home he had and, more importantly, the only place where he would be able to find proper attire for the grand celebration. 

When Draco appeared at the front gates, he hadn’t expected much. He had expected a crumbling mansion, filled with traces of dark magic and evil energy. As he walked through the gates and toward the main doors, however, he found that it looked pristine in the evening light. Draco had expected a ruin, but the Manor was as beautiful as the day he was born.

The entrance hall was immaculately clean. There were no blood stains on the stones or cobwebs in the corners. There were no traces of snake skins or bones. There were no tortured screams, no angry voices, no scent of decay. There were no signs of every evil, terrible thing that Draco _knew_ had happened within these walls. It was quiet. Peaceful, even.

Draco had expected to be overwhelmed by a looming sense of oppressiveness the instant he stepped through the entry doors, but the feeling never came. It was just a house. A clean, empty mansion of a house. It could hardly be blamed for every barbarous thing that took place beneath its roof.

There was a sudden _pop_ , and Draco was looking into a pair of wide, dark eyes. "Master Malfoy!" A house elf said, initiating a deep bow. With a rapid series of _pops,_ the entrance hall was soon _filled_ with house elves. Draco then realized that the house elves had never left; in fact, he was fairly certain there were _more_ of them, breeding in the place and feasting quite well without masters to feed. They had undone every atrocity inflicted upon the house itself and kept the Manor in a state of perfection. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was deeply grateful for the Malfoy house elves.

“Master Malfoy has returned to us!” The first house elf said.

"Master Malfoy," a series of hushed echoes repeated throughout the room.

"Er..." Draco began a little awkwardly, not entirely sure what to say. Clearly Harry was rubbing off on him. “Excellent work you’ve done here,” Draco nodded. He pushed his way through the house elves while they gasped in awe and pride, and then Draco charged up the stairs.

Now that the war was long behind him, it was easier to view the Manor as a place he had once called home. Yes, Voldemort may have walked _there_ and Aunt Bellatrix tortured someone _there_ , but somehow that no longer held the same power that it once did. Because he had slid down the stairway banister _there_ and he had played as a boy _there_ and his mother had once embraced him _there_ and they had posed for a family portrait _there_.

Draco made his way toward his old bedroom. It, too, was perfectly clean. He threw open his wardrobe before he remembered that he had taken the majority of his clothes with him when he left. Nothing that remained in the wardrobe would fit him anymore.

Draco moved toward his father’s room. When he opened the master bedroom door, he was overwhelmed by a familiar scent that filled him with nostalgia. The air still contained traces of the scented potions his father once wore. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected anything of his father to be left in the room--to still be _living_. Draco stopped, clenching his teeth and fighting the growing tension in his throat. He suddenly missed his parents so much he couldn't breathe.

Draco gripped his father’s bedpost to support himself. He saw the portrait of his father as a young man hanging on the wall, and then glanced away only to see himself in his father’s mirror. A small sob escaped him, and he finally stopped trying to fight his emotions. He curled up on his father’s bed and allowed himself to _feel_. To _grieve_. He missed his parents, despite everything. He thought of everything they had lost, everything that could have been. Everything that _should_ have been. He had never once been allowed to call his father “dad,” as Harry’s children did. It was always, “yes sir,” or “no sir.” They had never once talked of love. He had been overjoyed if his father had so much as smiled at him. And yet, despite all of that, he loved his father. He knew that, in his own way, his father had loved him. There had still been rare moments when he had witnessed his parents break down and _feel._ It was never particularly obvious; it was in a supportive hand against a back. A gentle word. A softening of the eyes.

Harry had already shown him so much more, had opened up an entire _world_ of love to him. Draco felt something warm and aching tightening in his chest. Merlin, this was what it felt like. This is what it had always felt like. This was love. Love for his father. Love for his mother. It was so very different from the cold emptiness he felt toward his Aunt Bella. Because, as the dementors had proved to him, that’s what hate really was. It was cold, and it was empty.

...Which meant he had never really _hated_ Potter at all. Maybe he hadn't always _liked_ him. But he had never _hated_ him. How had he confused the two emotions all this time?

James was right. He _loved_ Harry. Draco Malfoy was _in love_ with Harry Potter. Hopelessly, terrifyingly in love--like he had loved no one else before or since. Harry was as much a part of Draco as his own beating heart, and he feared that if Harry was ever ripped from his life, he would lose a core part of himself. _I will fucking break_ , he'd confessed under the truth potion. Now he saw it for the truth it really was.

Merlin, how many revelations could a person have in one day?

It was time. He knew it was time.

It was time to take his father’s place. It was time to reintroduce the Malfoy name into high society. 

But most importantly, it was time to find Harry.

Draco flung open his father’s deep wardrobe--practically a room itself--and began to browse. Black, black, black, everything was _black_. He was able to find a grey and a charcoal, but that wasn’t enough. If Draco was going to reenter society, he wanted to stand out. He wanted to be noticed. He wanted something...unexpected. For Malfoys, black was not only expected, but it would be too reminiscent of the Death Eaters that everyone would be trying to _forget_ that evening. Draco dug deeper and deeper and deeper. He was able to find a navy and a dark green. That had potential, but they weren’t dressy enough. They weren’t--

 _There_.

Perfect.

Wedged in the back, so tightly against the wall that they were hardly noticeable, were his father’s wedding robes. This was something his father had worn when he had been young and _happy_. They had only been worn once, and they were still practically new. Inspired by the Victorian riding style, they looked sleek, stylish, and masculine.

Draco washed, changed, and lightly misted himself with a bit of scented potion. He stood in front of his father’s mirror to admire his work. He wore tight-fitting white breeches that disappeared into slim white boots with gold buttons up the sides and golden embroidered trim. He wore a white shirt, cravat, and champagne-coloured waistcoat that could barely be seen beneath his dress robe: a long-sleeved suit jacket with wide, fashionable lapels and crisp square shoulders. With a dozen golden buttons holding the front together, it hugged his torso perfectly down to the tops of his hips, and then sharply angled back into two long white tails that came to the backs of his knees. The robe was absolutely dazzling. It sparkled in the light, a shade somewhere between white and champagne, and all of the edges were embroidered in shining golden thread. Draco applied a touch of eyeshadow and dark eyeliner to his eyes before he French-braided his hair back and secured it with white ribbon. He was pleased to find that he looked quite ravishing.

Perhaps the best part was: no one would expect it. No one would expect Draco to return to society looking like a prince. No one would expect him to look like the hero instead of the villain. He suspected that he would be the talk of all of Wizarding London, and for the first time in a _very_ long time, the idea excited him. He knew he was ready. He finally _felt_ ready for it.

Draco tucked his wand into the pocket inside his robes and went downstairs. Once in the main hall, he ran his hands along the stand that contained all of his father’s elegant canes and walking sticks. He found one that was designed with a familiar coiled snake and glittering eyes, but it was golden instead of black. He tucked it under his arm, and apparated back to London.

He had a party to attend. 

-

Back in London, the crowds were so thick that Draco was relieved that he had thought to apparate onto a rooftop. Once on the ground, he pressed his way through the streets toward one of the magical palace entrances. 

In the newspapers that morning, Draco had read that the palace was magically configured to adjust to the amount of people inside; it could fit the entire city within its walls if it needed to. Right now, however, despite how huge it was, it still felt too small. Witches and wizards were _everywhere_ , and he had only just walked beyond the palace gates. The sun had already set, and he was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t be able to catch Harry at the grand feast.

“Monsieur Malfoy!” Draco recognized a young duchess from his visits to his parents' chateau in France. She offered her hand, and he bowed deeply as he brushed his lips against her gloved knuckles. “It is so good to see you, monsieur! How are you?”

Draco relayed stories about his research and his travels. The duchess lamented the passing of Lucius and Narcissa and discussed her plans in Paris. Eventually, Draco’s eagerness to find Harry overpowered everything else, and he politely excused himself to resume his battle through the crowds.

By the time Draco had arrived in the dining hall, Harry was nowhere to be seen. The feast hadn’t actually _ended_ ; the tables were still covered in food--hogs and peacocks and giant fish and fresh fruits and cheeses and endless other delights. However, since the Grand Guest of Honour was nowhere to be seen, it likely meant that the events had formally moved into the Grand Ballroom. Draco hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he quickly slipped several morsels into his mouth. He didn’t have time to sit and dine properly, but luckily no one gave him any notice.

“Draco?”

...Or maybe he had been mistaken.

When Draco turned, he saw two old friends standing behind him arm in arm. It was such a welcome sight that he wanted to _cry_. “Greg! Pansy!” Etiquette be damned, he pulled them both into a giant hug.

Pansy Parkinson laughed warmly against his shoulder. “Where have you _been_ , you stuck-up idiot?” She stepped back and pinched him hard in the arm. “ _Never_ disappear on me like that _again_ , you hear me?”

“It’s good to see you, Draco,” Greg Goyle smiled, patting his back forcefully. “It’s been far too long.”

“Are the two of you...together?” Draco asked, stepping back so that he could see them better. Pansy was wearing emerald robes designed as a fashionable pantsuit; her short, dark hair tightly framed her face. She looked every bit the confident businesswitch Draco always suspected she would become. Greg, on the other hand, looked slim and haggard; clearly Azkaban had not been kind. Still, Greg was smiling genuinely at Draco and wearing robes that, while a little shabby at the edges, still looked perfectly festive.

“Merlin, no!” Pansy exclaimed, scrunching her adorable nose. Then she quickly added, “No offense, Greg.” She looked back toward Draco. “I’m happily single, thank you, and this one is fresh out of prison,” she said, patting Greg’s arm affectionately. “I’m trying to help him circulate. But ooh, look at you. I nearly forgot how well society suits you. And that outfit is just…” Pansy hummed. “Are you _aware_ that your robes are designed to draw attention to your crotch?”

Draco laughed. “I’ve missed you too, Pans.”

Draco almost lost track of time, talking with Greg and Pansy about everything that had happened since the war. His old friends filled a void he didn't even realize he _had,_ but Draco still wanted to find _Harry_. “I hate to run, but there’s really somewhere I need to be.”

“Save a dance for me, won’t you? Like the old days?” Pansy asked.

“You’ll have to find me first. I think all of Wizarding Britain is here.” 

“Well, don’t fall off the face of the earth this time, mm? We’ll have lunch.”

“I’d like that.” Draco wholeheartedly meant it.

It had been so long since he'd seen his old friends that he genuinely didn't think he _had_ friends anymore. He'd been surprisingly pleased to befriend Granger and Weasley, but he was even more pleased to discover that his own old friends still viewed him amiably.

If Draco had taken his portkey, he never would have known.

-

When Draco entered the Grand Ballroom, he could barely see the other side of it. The ballroom felt like it was nearly a kilometre long, and it was filled with people. Everyone wore their finest robes. The room shimmered with glamourous fashions and warm smiles. At the far end of the room there were steps leading up to a platform where members of the Ministry sat like kings and queens. Even with all of his practice identifying Harry from a distance on the battlements, he couldn't quite tell if Harry was among them.

Draco began pushing his way forward, determined to find Harry. His father’s cane was particularly helpful in this task, as he could gently press it into the crowd ahead of him and make a path if he was unable to push himself through directly. 

Soon there was a commotion toward the front of the room and he saw the crowd widening to form a circle. Draco pushed and pushed and pushed. He rocked on his toes, trying to see between one head and the next, continuing to force his way through the crowd. 

Harry. 

He _had_ to see Harry.

He _had_ to.

And then, there he was.

As Draco stumbled forward between two more tight shoulders, he saw Harry descending the steps from the Ministry's platform. The sight of him took Draco’s breath away. Because he was _stunning_. He was an absolute vision.

Harry wore a traditional Muggle black tuxedo with a starched white shirt underneath. Instead of a waistcoat, he wore a scarlet sash and crisp bow tie--not a bright, clownish scarlet, but a much richer, deeper colour. And over that, he wore a matching scarlet satin robe that exquisitely captured the light and shadow of the room as it rolled around him; the robe was perfectly fitted at Harry's arms and shoulders, yet the remaining floorlength fabric billowed so openly behind him as he walked that it was more reminiscent of a lightweight cloak or cape. Harry’s dark hair was slicked back and slightly to the side, and by some miracle it was actually _staying_ in place. The rims of Harry's eyeglasses had changed to a thin, tasteful gold. He wore white gloves over his hands. His black shoes shimmered in the light from the starry ceiling and candles floating throughout the room.

Draco nearly moaned at the sight of him.

Harry moved onto the ballroom floor, his hands clenching into nervous fists at his sides as his eyes darted unsteadily around the room. Since Harry wasn’t looking toward the Ministers at the front of the room, it meant that he was probably looking for Lily or Granger. Draco glanced around the edge of the wide circle and found Lily; she was only about a dozen people away from Draco. She was wearing beautiful Gryffindor coloured robes, which would match her father's perfectly if they danced. Draco began pushing his way through the crowd to reach her. 

By the time Draco was standing behind Lily, however, Harry’s attention had shifted toward the front of the room, back toward the members of the Ministry. Draco suddenly had a sour taste in his mouth. He could watch Harry dance with Lily or Granger, that was one thing. But so many of those Ministers looked surprisingly fetching and powerful in their expensive, modern dress robes. Draco even spotted Blaise Zabini among them, looking as handsome as ever. Some dark and possessive part of Draco began to bare teeth at the thought of watching any single one of them in Harry’s embrace, and he realized he had made a terrible mistake. He had wanted to see _Harry_ , yes, but he didn’t want to witness Harry dancing in front of the Wizarding World with a member of the Ministry, or even with Granger or Lily or any other person in this city of a crowd. The only person who should be dancing with Harry was _him._ The only person who should be in Harry’s embrace was _him._

...But Harry was probably furious with him right about now.

Merlin, he had been such a fool for thinking he could walk right back into Harry's life like nothing had happened. He had broken Harry’s heart just that morning. He had left, even though Harry had asked him to stay.

And this? He and Harry had never been _this_. They had never been _public_. Whatever they were, they had been it alone. They had never revealed their relationship, whatever it was, to Harry's adoring fans. They hadn't even revealed themselves to Granger and Weasley, although Draco suspected that they had figured it out anyway. Harry hated publicity when it came to his personal life; he wasn't about to feed the endless gossipmongers in this crowd. Maybe Draco felt fully at ease in a room full of politicians, but Harry would undoubtedly feel uncomfortable. Harry was going to follow the _rules_. He wasn’t about to dance with a former Death Eater at the most important event of the year. An event that celebrated the _defeat_ of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Draco felt like he was shattering to pieces, right in the middle of the ballroom. 

He would come back. 

He would come back after he had composed himself. He would find Harry when he was alone and accessible, and tell Harry everything he wanted to say. If Harry rejected him, he would go to Cairo like he had originally planned. He would retreat into his work and keep himself so busy that he would never have time to think about Harry Potter again.

There. He had formed a _plan_. He instantly felt better.

Draco startled when he felt a hand slap onto his shoulder. “What d’ya think, Malfoy? Anyone come onto Harry yet?” Weasley leaned toward Draco and lowered his voice, “Because I have a secret stash,” Weasley grinned conspiratorially, flashing a flask of firewhiskey that rested in a pocket of his robes. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be gone by now?”

Draco didn’t bother to respond. He was trying to disappear back into the crowd, which was proving to be more difficult than pushing to the front had been, because everyone was now pushing against him in their attempt to get a better view of Harry.

“Over here, Dad!” Lily called from somewhere behind Draco. Good. _Good_. Dancing with Lily was an acceptable choice, and less likely to drive Draco mad with jealousy. With Lily’s help, Harry could stop searching the crowd awkwardly and begin dancing.

Draco finally managed to wedge himself between two broad wizards, and was about to shove through two witches, when he felt the floor sliding beneath his feet. He was sliding backward even though he wasn’t moving his legs.

It was a strange sensation. He felt himself start to stumble and lose his balance before a hand, warm and secure, wrapped around his upper arm to stabilize him. Draco froze, unable to breathe, almost afraid to look over his shoulder--afraid that this hand belonged to someone other than the man he wanted. But then, even through his robes, Draco felt that subtle sliding thumb and was even more afraid to _not_ look over his shoulder.

Harry was watching him with gentle eyes, his expression a pleading question. Draco felt himself relax as the worried, crumbling pieces of his heart molded themselves back into place. Harry didn't look angry. He looked... _relieved_.

Harry stepped back, his eyes unabashedly gliding from Draco’s face, down his form, to his boots and back up again. There was a glimmer of heat in Harry’s eyes, and then he was _bowing,_ with one arm tucked against his torso and the other stretching forward as handsomely as if it was something he had done his entire life. Harry was bowing not to Lily but to _Draco_ _._ For quite possibly the first time in their entire lives, Harry was offering his hand. To _Draco_. Any lingering doubt in Draco’s mind bloomed fully into joy. He could feel tears, obnoxiously pesky things, threatening to well up in his eyes as he smiled. Draco willed them away. He would not _cry_ at the grandest event of the year. He would not tarnish his perfect eye makeup with _tears_ , for Merlin's sake. Draco cleared his throat and tried to gain some composure. “You’re sure about this, Potter?" Draco murmured. "If I take your hand--you do know what that _means_?” It meant that Harry was bestowing the esteemed honour of the first dance on _Draco Malfoy_ , former Death Eater. This would not go unnoticed.

Harry gave that arrogant little smirk. “You’ve only told me a dozen times.” Harry extended his gloved hand a little further.

Draco leaned toward Lily. “Guard this with your life,” he teased, handing her his cane.

"You're here!" she gasped excitedly, taking the cane. "Does this mean you're staying?"

"For now," Draco said, smiling like an absolute idiot as he straightened his posture and pressed his bare hand into Harry's gloved one. "For now."

Harry pulled Draco from the crowd until they were walking onto the dance floor together, hand in hand. There were several gasps from the crowd, which only made Draco grin wider as Harry led him to the center of the dance floor. 

Whispers erupted from the crowd all around them, but Draco couldn’t look away from Harry’s face long enough to care. He nodded encouragingly at Harry, hoping that some of his own ease might help calm Harry's nerves. Draco lifted his hand to rest on Harry’s shoulder while Harry pressed a hand to Draco’s shoulderblade. Draco was able to overhear a few pieces of conversation as they waited for the music to begin.

“Malfoy?”

“Is that Draco Malfoy?”

“The Malfoys are back in London?”

“Lucius Malfoy?”

“No, no, dear--Lucius’ son.”

“Wasn’t he a Death Eater?”

“Why is Harry Potter dancing with him?”

“He must not be a Death Eater after all.”

“I thought the Malfoys were dead.”

“Oh, just _look_ at those robes!”

“Aren’t they beautiful together?”

The small orchestra began to play their waltz. Harry began simply: a small dance held in one place, with no grand gestures or circles. Draco followed Harry's lead.

“You’re _here_ ,” Harry said, still staring at Draco as though he couldn't quite believe it. “I thought you were leaving.”

“And miss the event of the year?" Draco asked, nearly laughing. "Hardly. The more important question is," Draco tried to sound accusatory despite how elated he felt. "Did you just _Accio_ me, Potter?”

“Well, I--” Harry flushed. “I couldn’t reach you.”

Draco pulled his mouth into a cheeky smirk. “Do you _always_ get what you want?"

"Er...well," Harry's eyes locked onto Draco's, and it did terrible things to his insides. "Not _always,_ " Harry simpered, and it eviscerated Draco's meager attempt to look serious. Any more of that, and Harry was going to give Draco a hard-on in front of all of Wizarding Britain. And, as Pansy pointed out, his outfit _did_ draw a lot of attention to his crotch.

"I didn't realize that spell worked on people.” Draco slid his thumb along the fabric at Harry’s wrist and then dipped beneath it just long enough to _feel_ him. Draco didn’t dare leave his thumb there, because it was far too distracting and Harry was far too attractive. Draco didn’t trust himself not to shag Harry Potter right there in the middle of the dance floor, audience be damned. 

Eventually Harry grew more confident as they danced, widening the steps until they were spiraling around the crowded edges of the circle, their robes flying out in wide, graceful circles behind them. Harry led Draco into a hold that allowed Draco to lean back, posing in their perfect form, thighs and hips nearly pressed together--Draco could feel Harry’s tantalizing heat against his legs, against his abdomen, and then they were spinning again. As the dance progressed, Harry dared even the most complicated steps they had practiced; he led Draco into steps that even Draco wouldn’t have attempted at such an important event, had he been the one leading. Despite Harry’s nervousness, he was perfect. He was far better now, dancing in front of all these people, than he had ever been in practice. Typical Potter.

The crowd was loving it, too. After the initial shock had worn away, they were gasping and clapping in delight.

By the time the waltz finished, Harry and Draco were both breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling together.

The crowd roared their approval.

Draco was still beaming as he lingered in Harry's arms, happier than... _Merlin,_ had he ever been this happy? Harry was smiling at Draco with that flame back in his eyes, and Draco desperately wanted to lean forward and kiss him. In fact, he decided he would. Draco leaned closer, only to feel Harry panting against his mouth again, moving forward to meet him.

Draco hesitated.

Draco still hadn't told him; he hadn't told Harry how he felt, and Harry had to know. He had to. 

Draco pulled back before their lips could meet. “Harry, I--”

And then someone screamed. A terrible, blood-curling scream.


	15. Chapter 15

The torches and floating candles in the ballroom were suddenly extinguished; the magical stars in the ceiling blinked out, leaving the room in absolute darkness. 

There was a brief moment of silence as the very room seemed to hold its breath.

A spasm of green light flickered near the main entrance of the ballroom and a sickly Dark Mark rose toward the ceiling. The room erupted in screams. Because the event was so heavily warded, no one could disapparate. Fearful witches and wizards began stampeding toward the numerous side doors. It was absolute chaos.

Draco’s unfettered joy evaporated in an instant as his nightmares once again became reality. He felt nothing but dread and panic and a fierce _protectiveness_ as he stepped away from Harry and pulled out his wand. Harry came to Draco's side, his hawthorn wand already in hand.

“Lox!” Draco cast his ancient light spell toward the ceiling, and the room filled with pale white light. The light was much dimmer in the presence of dark magic, but at least it offered more light to the room than the light from the Dark Mark alone.

Draco could feel the dark magic from across the room-- _smell_ it even. The crowd had parted enough for Draco to see a dozen Death Eaters near the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Draco's stomach curled in on itself when he saw several bodies sprawled across the floor near the entrance. The poor witches and wizards had probably been caught too off-guard or shocked to even think to defend themselves. Draco could only hope they were still alive.

Granger and Weasley appeared behind Harry and Draco with their wands drawn, and Draco realized how _right_ this felt. He was standing with Harry Potter, shoulder to shoulder, about to face a dark foe. This was how it could have been, he thought regretfully. It was how it _should_ have been. He eased his regret with the knowledge that this was how it was _now_.

"Why are _they_ here?" Weasley muttered testily.

"How'd they get past the Aurors?" Granger asked quietly.

Draco didn’t know why Death Eaters were here _or_ how they had gotten past the Aurors; he could only guess that they had every intention to prove to the world just how _alive_ Voldemort’s power still was. The worst of it was, Harry was probably their primary target.

James marched right past Draco with his wand drawn, but Draco curled his fist into the back of James' robes and pulled him back. "Oh, _no_ you don't." Draco wasn't about to make the same mistake twice; he wasn't going to let Harry's eldest son run directly into the face of danger. Harry's friends and family were _his_ friends and family, and he intended to do everything in his power to protect them. _All_ of them.

Draco needed a _plan._ Quickly.

“Do you trust me?” Draco whispered to Harry, still clutching a struggling James.

“What are you going to do?”

“Do you _trust_ me?”

Harry squeezed Draco’s arm. “With my life.”

“Take James and find Lily and Albus and _run_. You too, Granger. Weasley.”

The crowd was already thinning, and those who remained were cowering near the edges of the room until they could flee through the doors. Something must have happened to the Aurors that were guarding the ballroom; that was the only explanation as to why no one was rushing in to protect Harry.

Draco began striding across the ballroom toward the line of Death Eaters, who still hadn't noticed him amidst the chaos. He pressed his wand against his glittering robe and muttered an inking spell that dyed all of the white fabric black. The only colours untouched were the golden embroidery thread and his buttons. He then cast a spell that ripped open the fabric of his robes and shirt from his forearm to his wrist and extended his arm, openly baring his Dark Mark.

“It’s about time you useless fucks got here!” he spat, summoning every ounce of haughtiness into his bones.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” one asked, raising his wand toward Draco’s throat as lingering guests continued to scream and scurry toward the doors.

“What, don’t recognize me without my hood? The name’s Draco Malfoy. I _know_ you’ve heard of me.”

“Vax never mentioned you,” one Death Eater eyed Draco's Dark Mark suspiciously. Half of them were young. Younger than Draco, at any rate. The youngest looked barely seventeen; he probably didn’t even _have_ a Dark Mark--not a real one, anyway. The other half, however, was older. Draco vaguely recognized some of them. During the war they had been amateurs, but that didn’t mean they weren’t incredibly dangerous _now._

Unenlightened fools, the lot of them. It took a certain level of willful ignorance, a blindness to the real meaning of justice, and a lack of empathy for anyone to believe that supporting Voldemort and his supremacist ideals was a worthy cause. Draco knew, because _he_ had once been one of them.

“Malfoy?” Another Death Eater asked--this one Draco had actually seen during the war. “I should kill you right now. Traitor.”

“My _father_ is the traitor, actually. _He_ defected.”

“No, I heard--”

“If you heard _anything_ , it’s because that’s what the Dark Lord _wanted_ you to hear. It’s called espionage, you imbecile. Haven’t you heard that I’m at Hogwarts? How do you think I was able to arrange things so Potter would be _exactly_ where you wanted him tonight?”

“But that wasn't..." one stammered.

"The Dark Lord is dead,” Another said.

Draco spun around, extending his wand in the direction of whomever had spoken and bringing his voice to a deep, rumbling shout. “Who _dares_ blaspheme his name?” They were silent, half of them looking at him with wide eyes. Practically children. He almost swore he had taught one of them in advanced potions. “Have _you_ ever been honoured by a visit from the Dark Lord? Mm? I didn't think so. The Dark Lord trusts the House of Malfoy, and after the war that is where he returned to regain his strength. _You_ are as good as dead, once he learns of your treachery.”

“But the Dark Lord _is_ dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“The Dark Lord cannot be killed! Was he killed the first time? Was he?” Draco asked angrily. 

“N-no,” one squeaked. Draco practically felt like he was back in front of a classroom. Merlin, was he really this easily persuaded at that age?

“If you believed him to be dead, it means you are not yet worthy of knowing he’s alive.” Draco pressed his wand to his Dark Mark, casting a silent ancient illusion spell. It had been very convenient for turning lifeless magical hieroglyphs and cave paintings into a moving Wizarding story, but he had never actually tried it on _flesh_. Draco stared at his Mark, willing it to life. _Begging_ it to life, and hoping that these Death Eaters wouldn't question it. The dead, unmoving Mark shivered into motion, writhing beneath the tip of his wand. _Thank Salazar._ The Death Eaters looked up at Draco with alarm and awe. “Let’s prove your worth tonight, shall we?" Draco said, looking each one in the eyes. "Now that you are here, you are to follow _my_ orders, and mine alone, as I seem to be the only one of you masquerading idiots who actually knows our Lord’s will!”

Draco dared a glance over his shoulder and was relieved to find that Weasley, Granger, and Potter were nowhere to be seen. _Good_.

However, Draco _did_ see Neville Longbottom, who was sliding through the fleeing crowd toward the front corner of the room. A woman, matching him step for step, moved up the opposite side of the room. Two Aurors offered more of a chance than Draco had alone, but three wands against twelve Death Eaters were still no odds at all. Draco needed to separate them. 

“You four,” Draco pointed at four Death Eaters on the left. “Capture the Minister of Magic. You should find her hiding down that hallway.” Draco honestly had no idea if there were even any _rooms_ down that hallway; he just needed them to _go_ there.

“He’s bluffing. I’m telling you, the Dark Lord is dead!”

Draco had never been particularly skilled at casting silent, wandless spells, but too many lives depended on him; he couldn't fail. Draco summoned every bit of Harry's arrogant luck as he could and cast a silent, wandless screaming spell. The Death Eater who had spoken the words began screaming. Draco had briefly considered a Cruciatus Curse, but knew he wouldn’t actually be able to cast it effectively because he didn’t _mean_ it. The spell wouldn’t work, and his bluff would be discovered. An ancient screaming spell, on the other hand, was harmless, but the people on the receiving end caused such a terrible racket that it was easy to believe they _were_ being tortured. Draco replaced the spell with a wandless, silent paralyzing spell so that it _looked_ like he had just tortured and killed one of them. _Silently_. And because it was wandless, there was no pink line of light from his wand to betray him. The Death Eaters had no way of knowing that Draco had cast anything other than an Unforgivable Curse.

“Does anyone else wish to blaspheme? No? I _said:_ you four! Down that hallway to capture the Minister! And you four,” Draco pointed to another group, “to the Throne Room. Bring down the wards so that Lord Voldemort can apparate into the palace and prove that he is very much alive on this anniversary of his death. Now _move_ , before the Dark Lord kills _all_ of you for your failure!”

Merlin, it was actually working. Four Death Eaters were moving in the direction of the hallway, and the other four were moving in the direction of the Throne Room. Draco saw Longbottom and his partner begin to move in behind the group that was seeking the Minister, and the other four were bound to run into some Aurors by the time they reached the Throne Room. That left three.

Draco looked into the remaining Death Eaters' faces, and his stomach clenched as he recognized the one in the middle. He was the Death Eater who had appeared in the newspaper. The one who had _murdered_ Ginny Weasley, and undoubtedly intended to harm, if not outright kill, Harry Potter. The Death Eater lifted his chin and cast a downward eye. There was a snobbish cynicism in the man's expression that hinted he wasn't _entirely_ buying Draco's act. “I suppose you’ll want _us_ to continue with the original plan, then?”

“Obviously.” Bloody hell, what _was_ their plan? “Well, get to it! _Now!_ ” Draco barked.

“This will take some time,” the Death Eater said, pulling a dark orb out of his robes. “Why don't the three of you go hunting for Potters while I finish, mmm? I’m certain the Dark Lord won’t object to _that_ ,” he leered at Draco.

The orb was reminiscent of a remembrall, except it was opaque and black. In fact, it looked like a much _larger_ version of that rare magical artifact that he and Granger had found near the Forbidden Forest--the one that functioned as a holding cell for dementors. If even the smallest orb had contained at least three dementors, how many did _this_ contain? It was so large that it barely fit in the Death Eater's palm as he eased it onto the ballroom floor.

Draco wanted to stay and observe this Death Eater's actions, but he didn't want to arouse more suspicion. He would come back to stop this Death Eater, but he couldn't do it _yet_.

Reluctantly, Draco trailed behind the two other Death Eaters through the palace, supposedly hunting for Potters. They moved through door after door, exploring room after room. Many of the guests had already abandoned the palace interior, and those who remained were either hiding or in the process of fleeing. If Harry had actually _listened_ , which a part of Draco still found considerably doubtful, then Harry should not be in the palace at all and their hunt was futile. However, Harry Potter _was_ Harry Potter, so Draco didn't want to discard the possibility that he could still be around somewhere. Draco had no desire to run into Harry and give the Death Eaters the opportunity they desired.

The two Death Eaters entered another small room and Draco clutched his wand behind them, trying to determine how best to proceed. He could stupefy them, but as they were standing side by side one would very likely notice before Draco had the chance to fire a second spell. Then again, Draco would undoubtedly be catching them off their guard. He decided to take the risk.

He stupefied one Death Eater and, just as the other began to turn around, he stupefied her as well. Draco cast an Incarcerous and a disillusionment charm over them and ran through the halls toward the throne room. There were still nine Death Eaters left, possibly more.

Draco was in the midst of running past a room when he heard cackling voices coming from inside. He abruptly stopped, his fancy boots sliding a little along the smooth palace floors, and then doubled back into the room.

Two more Death Eaters stood inside; slinking toward the rear corner like lions hunting prey.

And then Draco saw who was _in_ the corner.

James Potter gripped his wand and faced the Death Eaters, grinding his teeth.

Fuck. 

"Do it, I _dare_ you!" James yelled at them.

Draco wanted to smack the boy aside the head for his brainless bravado. Like father, like son.

Draco could _try_ to stupefy these Death Eaters like he had stupefied the others, but they had already seen him in the doorway. He lacked the element of surprise.

Draco wasn't sure if he'd been in a situation quite like this since the war. Yes, there had been no shortage of threats when exploring ancient magical tombs, but they were always different. They were manageable. They had clear solutions. They were never... _this_. They never involved Death Eaters trying to regain power; they were never direct and personal threats to the lives of people Draco cared about.

“Mr. Potter!” Draco called, pushing his way between the Death Eaters and walking up to James. “It would seem I finally get to watch you die.” _Please_ let James believe he isn’t actually with them. _Please_.

“I always knew you would turn on us,” James said with a scowl, his wand out and trembling slightly. “That you were with _them_ all along. My dad’s going to _kill_ you!”

The Death Eaters behind Draco laughed.

Fuck.

“Yes,” Draco drawled. “The thing about _that_ is...your dad’s not here.” Draco tried desperately to communicate with his eyes.

“ _I’ll_ kill you, then!” James said, his voice shaking but determined as he lifted his wand.

“You really think you stand a chance against me? I fought in the _war_ , and you--I bet you can’t even cast an _expelliarmus_ ,” Draco emphasized, nodding subtly at James as he lifted his hand in front of his chest and pointed toward the left. Draco waited, silently begging for James to understand. James scrunched his face into a confused scowl, because they both _knew_ he could cast an expelliarmus. Then he saw James' eyes flicker in recognition, and knew his message had been delivered.

“Wanna bet?” James said.

“Try me. You’ll be dead before your spell can fall.” With the hand in front of his chest, Draco signaled: One. Two. 

On three, Draco spun around. “Expelliarmus!”

The wands flew from both Death Eaters’ hands as Draco and James cast their spells simultaneously. Draco cast some additional binding and disillusionment spells to nullify the Death Eaters until the Aurors could arrive. “Nice work, James. Have you seen your dad?”

James shook his head. "I don't know. We got separated."

Draco tried to remain calm. Harry had defeated Voldemort and had been head _Auror_ ; it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle himself. But Draco was still worried. He hated not knowing where Harry was. He hated not knowing whether or not he was _safe_. And Draco knew for a fact that Harry wouldn’t have left the building without every single one of his children. ...Which meant that Harry would still be in the palace, looking for James.

“How about your brother and sister?”

James shook his head. "Haven't seen them."

Draco took a breath. There was no need to panic. It was entirely possible that Lily and Albus were perfectly safe.

“James, I need _you_ to get out of here, so that we can get your _dad_ out of here. Can we agree to that?"

"But--"

"Can we _agree_ to that?" Draco repeated a little more forcefully.

The fight eased out of James a little. " _Fine,_ " he huffed.

Draco crept back into the hallway to make sure it was clear before leading James toward the nearest palace exit. Draco reached for the narrow wooden door and pushed it open slightly, assessing the situation outside. The door opened into a narrow alley that appeared to connect to the gardens. There were still people wandering the gardens as though nothing was wrong; maybe they didn't even _know_ that anything was wrong. Draco opened the door a little wider. "Go," Draco said. " _Please_ be careful. Find some Aurors if you can."

James stepped through the door and into the night. Before Draco could close the door, James reached for his arm. " _Please_ find my dad, Professor," James said desperately. "Don't let them--" James swallowed nervously. "He can't--"

"You know perfectly well how I feel about your father, James. I'll protect him with my life. You have my word."

James studied the sincerity in Draco's face for a moment before he finally nodded and released Draco's arm. "Go kick some Death Eater arse," he said, trying to force a smile despite the concern etched into his features.

Draco gave a tight nod before closing the door. Well, that was _one_ Potter safe. Three to go.

The palace was quiet as Draco made his way toward the throne room. Dimly lit candelabras flickered against the walls, barely illuminating giant paintings. Once he arrived at the entrance, he saw two more Death Eaters inside, taking turns sitting on the throne rather than working on the wards. Merlin, they couldn’t even do their _one_ job correctly. Draco crept into the shadows of the doorway. His boots were nearly silent on the thin red carpet that ran down the center of the room. He cast two Expelliarmus spells, one after the other, followed by binding and disillusionment spells.

That left the Death Eaters he had supposedly sent after the Minister, and the two still in the ballroom--one of whom was theoretically already incapacitated from his ancient paralyzing spell.

Draco continued through the hallways, hunting for the four Death Eaters he had sent to find the Minister. As his boots collided against black and white tiles like the ticking of a clock, he feared he would never find them in time. _Harry_. Bloody hell, where _was_ he? Had something happened? Was something _wrong_?

The worst part was, now he wasn't just finding Harry for _himself_. He needed to find Harry for James. He needed to find Harry for the _world._

Suddenly a small object clattered near his feet and Draco felt his limbs being pulled tightly together.

 _Fuck, fuck,_ _fuck._

Draco crashed against the hallway wall, so desperate to stay on his feet that he managed to roll against the wall until it was firmly pressed against his back. He tried to reach for his wand, but it had already been forced out of his hand. Draco's eyes frantically assessed his surroundings as his mind raced to find a new plan.

Neville Longbottom was quickly approaching Draco with his wand extended, and Draco exhaled his relief. It wasn't Death Eaters. He wasn't caught yet. "Longbottom! Have you seen--"

When Longbottom was close enough, he punched Draco across the side of the face. "Draco Malfoy," Longbottom said bitterly as Draco lost what little balance he had against the wall and toppled to the floor.

Okay, so Draco probably deserved that. He _had_ ruthlessly bullied Longbottom in school. "Longbottom," Draco breathed, "wait."

"I should've known _you_ were involved in this," Longbottom said.

Draco blinked down, trying to determine what the hell was happening. The small object that had clattered to Draco's feet had been some kind of seed. The seed had sprouted long, thick vines that wrapped themselves around Draco's torso, completely immobilizing him. Of _course_ Longbottom wouldn't be satisfied with casting a bloody Incarcerous like a normal wizard. Draco could feel himself condescendingly rolling his eyes as he struggled against the plant. When the vines began constricting around him, he could feel his breath being squeezed from his lungs. "Your side," Draco coughed as the vine tightened painfully around his ribs. "I'm on your side."

Longbottom laughed. "Malfoy, when have you _ever_ been on my side?"

"Since-- Harry--" Draco heaved for breath. "Did you not see--" He took another breath "Dancing?"

"You think I'm going to listen to a single word you say?" Longbottom swished his wand and the vines tightened.

Draco would gladly accept any torments that Longbottom wanted to inflict upon him, just not right _now_. "For fuck's sake, Longbottom!" Draco grunted, struggling against the vines. "You're wasting time!"

Longbottom crouched near Draco's face. "You'll find all the time you need in Azkaban."

"Oi!" a new voice called from down the hall.

"Oh thank Godric," Draco muttered. He'd never been so relieved to see Ron Weasley in his entire life. "Weasley!" Draco grit out. "Would you kindly tell Longbottom to _shove off_?"

"Ah. He's alright, Nev. You can let him go."

"You do realize this is Draco _Malfoy_ , Ron? Don't you?"

Ron sighed, "Yeah, so he and Harry have a bit of a...thing. As it turns out. Tap into his head if you have to, but...trust me, mate, based on what I've already been unfortunate enough to see, I _really_ don't think you'll want to."

Longbottom looked from Weasley to Draco, clearly not convinced. He cast a Legilimency spell and Draco offered no resistance. He could feel Longbottom flipping through his memories like pages in a book. Draco couldn't help the sly smirk that crossed his face when Longbottom found the memory of Draco and Harry in the shower. Served the nosy bastard right.

"Ugh!" Longbottom instantly retreated from Draco's mind. "Merlin, I... _really_ didn't need to see that," he muttered.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, mate," Weasley said.

"Sorry, Malfoy," Longbottom said as he released the vines with a flick of his wand. "Can't really blame me, can you?"

Draco pushed himself to his feet. "Where's Harry?"

“I don’t _know_ , mate," Weasley said. "I was hoping he was with you. We ran into a couple of Death Eaters; Hermione neutralized one of them, but Harry chased after the other and no one's seen him since.”

"Potter," Draco groaned as he shook his head grimly. He could strangle the man. In fact, he fully intended to, once Harry was _safe_. “What about Albus and Lily?”

“With Hermione, Rose, and Hugo, making their way outside. Brilliant call with that walking stick.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, brushing off his sleeves and picking up his wand.

“The cane you gave Lily! _Genius_ , that, giving her a warded cane. No Death Eater spells could get through the thing. It saved both her _and_ Albus before Hermione found them."

Draco hadn't the slightest idea that his father's walking stick was warded, but he was grateful for it. Fortunate, that. "How many Death Eaters left?" Draco asked.

"There's no way to know for sure," Longbottom said. "We're still not even sure how they got in."

Draco's nervous energy was getting the upper hand. He took a fidgeting step, fully intending to continue his search for Harry.

"Hold on, Malfoy," Longbottom said. "My partner's hit, and we may be outnumbered. We need to wait for backup."

"There's no _time_!" Draco nearly pulled at his hair. Was he the _only_ person here concerned for Harry's welfare? "I have to find _Harry_."

"I'll help, mate," Weasley twirled his wand over his fingers. "Been a while since I've seen a good fight."

"Ron--" Longbottom chided.

There was a shriek toward the end of the hall, and they saw a swish of dark robes. Two more Death Eaters were chasing someone who looked a great deal like the Minister of Magic into a room. "Not much choice, is there?" Weasley said, adjusting his hold on his wand.

Longbottom sighed. "Fine. Ron, come with me. Malfoy, you--"

But Draco was already running in the other direction. He'd run the length of the entire _palace_ if he had to, he just needed to find _Harry_. He glanced into room after room as he went, but he was nowhere to be found.

Maybe Harry had left. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he was safe.

But if that was the case, there was still the matter of Ginny's murderer in the ballroom. He wasn’t leaving the palace without knowing that Ginny’s murderer was brought to justice and Harry's family could finally stop being hunted.

It was time to return to the ballroom for a waltz with some Death Eaters.

-

The Grand Ballroom was already ten times smaller without masses of people inside of it. When Draco fully stepped inside, he stopped breathing. 

He'd found Harry.

Harry was on the ground in the center of the ballroom. His body was sprawled in an almost unnatural position, and he was squirming and gasping for breath on the floor, barely capable of gurgling his cries of pain. His glasses had been knocked from his face, and his red robes were stretched behind him on the tiled floor.

The Death Eater--the same one who had killed Ginny--was standing above Harry, armed with a wand. In fact, he was armed with _two_ wands, one of which was made of very familiar hawthorn. And this Death Eater was torturing Harry. _His_ Harry. Meanwhile, a second Death Eater--presumably the one that Harry had chased _into_ the ballroom in the first place--was watching. Just _watching_.

Something dark, possessive, and dangerous coiled inside of Draco then, growing rapidly until it was a ball of hellish rage. He wove that fury into himself until he felt its powerful magic pooling in his veins. If rage was magic, this Death Eater would already be dead. _Dead_. 

Draco strode across the ballroom floor toward the Death Eaters. “Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Incarcerous!”

Draco caught Harry’s wand mid-air and batted the Death Eater’s wand away. Before the wand had even clattered to the floor, the Death Eater was incapacitated and the other Death Eater began to run away. Draco had him incapacitated and on the floor in a matter of seconds.

Draco dropped to Harry’s side and pulled Harry into his lap. “Harry,” he whispered. "I'm here." Harry’s tidy hair had come loose, and Draco brushed the wild strands away. “Harry? Look at me.” Harry wearily looked up at Draco. “Hi,” Draco smiled, and Harry returned it weakly. "You just couldn't resist running _directly_ into danger, could you, you stupid, reckless prat?" Draco ran his hands tenderly along the sides of Harry's face.

"Are--" Harry croaked, his voice still strained.

"Hush." Draco cast a healing spell that he had always found particularly effective after a Crucio. Draco held Harry's face between his hands and pressed his lips to Harry's forehead until they were both thrumming with healing, golden warmth. 

"They're safe," Draco assured Harry, not lifting his mouth from Harry's skin. "James, Albus, Lily. They're all safe."

Draco saw unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye.

“What--” Draco looked up, his lips instantly colder without Harry against them.

The dark orb that the Death Eater had placed on the floor was spinning rapidly, lifting toward the ceiling of its own accord. There was a sickly green flash, and the orb opened into a wide, black, circular portal high in the ceiling. A cloud of dementors began pouring through the portal and into the room. There were so many that Draco couldn’t even hope to count them.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered. So _that_ had been the original plan. Maybe Hogwarts had just been practice.

“What do we do?” Harry asked frantically, trying to pull himself upright. Instead, he collapsed forward onto his belly, holding his weight with his elbows as he looked fearfully toward the ceiling. 

“Some Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher _you_ are. We cast the only spell we can, obviously.” Draco pressed the hawthorn wand into Harry’s hand.

“But I can’t—”

“You are Harry fucking Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, who cast his first Patronus before he had even snogged a person and you can do anything you put your mind to, you annoying twit. Now cast.” 

He shook his head. “I—”

“Not another word, Potter. We’ll do it together.” Draco was right beside him now, whispering against Harry's ear and trying to resist the cold emptiness of the dementors that had already begun to seize him. “You know what I think about? When I cast mine?” 

Harry shook his head defeatedly, staring uncertainly up at the dementors and looking completely overwhelmed. 

Draco folded his hand over Harry’s on the hawthorn wand _—their_ wand. “You.” Draco whispered, tightening his grasp around Harry’s hand, altering their fingers until all of his were directly on the wand while still touching Harry. “I think about _you_.”

Harry was looking at Draco now, instead of the threat above them. “I think about _this_.” Draco nodded toward their hands. That golden light was there, pulsing between them; except now, for the first time, it was visibly circling their hands and spiraling around the wand.

Harry’s eyes sparkled as his mouth eased into an affectionate smile. Harry's expression hardened into determination until it fully transformed into that smug, confident look that Draco once despised, but now found he absolutely adored.

“Ready?” Draco asked. Harry nodded.

They cast the Patronus simultaneously, and two streams of light shivered from the end of the wand. Harry’s Patronus and Draco’s. ...Except the light wasn’t its usual blue blur; it was gold, and bright, and vivid. Draco felt full and strong, despite the fact that a dark and gruesome hell had opened above their heads. There was magic visibly swirling around their hands, and it should have been impossible. Everything about the two of them should have been impossible, but somehow they had defied the odds.

Harry and Draco’s _wand_ may have been brilliant together, but _Harry_ and _Draco_ were _spectacular._

The dementors were pulled into the blinding light as quickly as they had appeared. The chorus of their whispered shrieks echoed around the empty ballroom and Draco cringed against the miserable sound. Then the dark portal in the ceiling was spinning. Shrinking. Shrinking down to the size of an orb. Until it _was_ an orb again. The orb, still black and glossy, fell to the ballroom floor and shattered into dust.

Harry and Draco breathed heavily into the silence as the floating Dark Mark disappeared and the stars sparkled back to life in the ballroom ceiling.

Harry’s wand clattered to the floor.

Draco rolled onto his back to catch his breath, stretching one leg flat while the other bent at the knee.

Harry rolled on top of him.

Then they were snogging wildly in the middle of the ballroom floor.

Draco moaned against Harry's mouth. This was all he'd wanted all _day_ and finally it was his. He pulled Harry more tightly into his arms, mussing his hair as their tongues met and they slowly began rutting against each other.

Well, at least they _were_ , until the ballroom doors banged open and Longbottom marched in with a small army behind him: Weasley, half a dozen Aurors, and one very sneaky reporter.

Draco groaned at the intrusion. He had been fully content to grind against Harry through his trousers until they both came like teenagers, thankyouverymuch.

Harry rolled off of Draco and onto his side, propping his head up on his elbow. He made no attempt to untangle their legs or scoot away as he reached for his glasses and pushed them back onto his nose. Conveniently, he maneuvered his scarlet robe over Draco’s very obvious erection in his very tight, now black breeches. They both smiled at the approaching crowd, making their best attempts to appear as heroic and innocent as anyone could possibly look while flushed and tangled up with another person.

As the group approached, Draco blinked.

The sneaky reporter looked a lot like Cornelius.

In fact, as he grew closer, Draco realized that it _was_ Cornelius.

Apparently Cornelius had abandoned his research altogether to pursue his gossipy editorials full-time. Cornelius’ eyes flashed to Draco, and Draco couldn’t speak. His heart was racing. He wasn’t sure what to feel. He was suddenly back to that morning at the caravan in Norway--abandoned and alone, all because of one life-altering mistake.

Cornelius cleared his throat and looked at Harry. “Mr. Potter. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course,” Harry said. Before Cornelius could actually form a question, however, Harry continued. “Shall I tell you about my night with _actual_ Death Eaters, or how the man you once dragged through the mud just saved my life? Or perhaps you’d be more interested in how he saved the lives of my children?” Harry was suddenly speaking with such suave confidence that Draco didn’t even know where it had come from.

"I can...I can see that maybe now's not a good time..." Cornelius stammered.

"No, it isn't. Nor will it _ever_ be. You've insulted Draco Malfoy, and therefore you've insulted _me_. This man is a hero, and he should be treated like one."

When Harry openly gripped Draco’s left forearm and ran his thumb lovingly over Draco's Dark Mark right under Cornelius' gaze, Draco felt a little bit like crying.

Even after Cornelius retreated and left the ballroom, Harry didn’t let go.


	16. Chapter 16

Well over an hour later, Draco and Harry sat together on the edge of a fountain in the palace gardens, still answering Longbottom's questions about what had happened so he could complete his Auror paperwork. Draco had been staring at the same cluster of flowered topiary for what felt like forever, but he was still stunned by the beauty of the pink and yellow blooms as the fountain trickled majestically behind them. At least endlessly staring at the same patch of flowers was preferable to staring at the repellent fashion choices made by some of the Aurors and reporters. 

Surprisingly, the celebration had roared back to life shortly after the Death Eaters were dealt with. No one could argue that the Wizarding World didn’t know the true meaning of _Keep Calm and Carry On_ , especially when it came to a party.

“Yes,” Longbottom was saying, jotting something down onto a small piece of parchment. “Was that before or after you--”

But the question was lost when fireworks boomed through the sky. Harry pressed his hand out over the flat stone, brushing his fingers lightly against the edges of Draco’s. Draco curled his pinky finger around Potter’s, and pressed their knees together. 

"Do you think the rest can wait until tomorrow, Nev?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I suppose we're all pretty beat. We'll finish at breakfast?"

"Perfect," Harry said, his eyes darting to the fireworks display.

“Are you alright?” Draco whispered under his breath to Harry, grateful for the momentary reprieve. “Now that we’ve...we’ve got him?” For some reason, Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to say _the man who murdered your wife._

Harry dolefully nodded twice, tightening his hand over Draco’s as they looked up at the bursts of light sparkling across the sky.

As Harry and Draco leisurely walked back toward the palace, Harry wove his arm through Draco’s and entangled their fingers.

“Oh dear!” A small old woman exclaimed, shuffling by them excitedly as she hastened toward the palace. At first Draco thought she might be reacting to _them_ , until she said, “I hear they have quite a show this year.”

Weasley was waiting for them in the courtyard, leaning against a stone statue with his arms crossed. “Oh good! Just the men I wanted to see,” he pulled away from the statue and moved toward Harry and Draco. “Can one of you explain to me,” he looked pointedly between the two of them, “why a stag and a dragon are attempting to shag in the middle of the ballroom? Any ideas? There are _children_ present, you know.”

Well, bugger.

Potter went all shades of red, while Draco was trying to picture what that would even _look_ like.

“Maybe if I…” Draco cast his Patronus again, but the dragon regained its golden hue and went scampering back toward the ballroom like an eager puppy. “Well, hell.” Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had cast two Patronuses simultaneously with the same wand.

“Come on,” Weasley said, patting them on the back. “They’re bound to fade out eventually. Hermione’s just taken the kids back to the hotel.”

-

When Harry stepped into his children's hotel suite, he was quickly bombarded by James, Albus, and Lily. "Dad!" they called.

Even Rose and Hugo tackled themselves into the pile, shouting, "Uncle Harry!"

Harry was soon so surrounded by his clinging children that he could hardly move. "I'm fine," Harry laughed encouragingly, wrapping his arms around them. "Everything's fine."

James nodded gratefully at Draco over Harry's shoulder, and Draco nodded back.

When Harry was finally able to _escape_ the children's room, he slipped into the hallway. Granger and Weasley were outside the door, quietly finishing a conversation with two Aurors.

Granger rushed over to Harry and hugged him. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?” Granger asked as they walked toward their rooms. “Those Aurors will be posted in the hallway, and we can get more for your door if--"

"It's fine, Hermione. We're only just down the hall," Harry pulled his keys out of his robes and began unlocking their hotel room. “I’d feel more comfortable if any Aurors were posted at the childrens’ suite tonight. Draco and I can handle ourselves.”

Granger sighed. “But you’re sure you’ll--?”

“We’ll be fine, Hermione.” Harry assured her. “Really.”

Draco pushed open the door to their room and stepped inside. Behind him, Harry was saying, “Yes Ron, I’ll let you know if I need anything. Yes.” It took all of Draco’s willpower to not tell Weasley to bugger off so he could have Harry to himself for five seconds.

Finally, Harry stepped wearily into the room and shut the door behind him, sighing as he pressed his back to it. He lifted his eyes to Draco. They stared at each other, just breathing. And then they were each closing the gap between them, meeting somewhere in the middle with mouths and teeth, arms coiling around each other's bodies. Harry groaned as Draco turned and slammed him against the wall near the door, sliding his tongue along Harry’s lower lip before pressing it into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s tongue met his, pushing, swirling, as fast and elegant as their waltz had been.

There was an abrupt knock on the door and Draco fell away, cheeks flushed and breathing hard. Harry cleared his throat and opened the door. Draco crossed the room and began pacing by the window, his black robes still clinging tightly to him, hanging in pieces at his left arm.

“Is everything alright?” Granger asked. “We heard a noise.”

“Fine, Hermione. Go to sleep.” Harry closed and locked the door. He pulled out his wand and cast silencing charms around the room before setting his wand on a table.

Draco was still standing by the window, eyebrows furrowed as he watched Harry.

“What is it?” Harry asked, sensing his distress.

“There's something I need to say.”

Harry swallowed. “Are you catching another portkey?”

“No! ...Um. I mean, that is... that depends if you…" Draco sighed. Was he now destined to stammer incomprehensively like Potter for the rest of his days? "I--I can't remember how to say this. Something about liking you so much I can’t think straight and…”

“If I ever left you, you'd break?” Harry cocked his head to the side.

Draco looked toward Potter in alarm. “You heard? The truth potion--you heard everything?”

Potter looked down at his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Silk _is_ very breathable. Even the pillows don't muffle very well.”

“You arse! Why didn't you tell me?”

Harry shrugged. “You weren't ready for me to know. I don’t even think you were ready for _you_ to know.”

Draco shook his head. “You arsehole. You beautiful, brilliant arsehole.” Draco swallowed. “You know, I realized something. Earlier tonight.”

“Oh, after the waltz! You were going to say something and I completely forgot.”

“Yes. I was going to say...I was going to say," Merlin, why was this so difficult? Draco had been wanting to say this _all day_ and now he was completely losing his nerve. "That I might try staying around for a while, if that's alright with you. Rebuild the Malfoy name the old-fashioned way. You know...lots of fancy dress parties, political intrigue, that sort of thing. Or maybe I’ll stay at Hogwarts for another year.” He smiled, and then frowned. “No, that’s not what I was going to say. I mean, I was going to say it, but there's...” Draco sighed defeatedly. There was no avoiding it now. “I was going to say that I--” Draco took a deep breath. “I love you." Draco nearly swallowed his tongue. He could say this. "I _love_ you, Harry, and it's not like everyone else loves you. I love you far more than that. Far _worse_ , really, because it’s strong and terrifying and...well, horribly inconvenient, really. Quite exasperating, most days. I...I think I’ve been in love with you for a _long_ time. I just didn't know how to--”

"Draco," Harry whispered fondly. He was still halfway across the room when he brought his hands together at his chest and then parted them rapidly. Draco’s shirt and waistcoat ripped open down the middle, buttons exploding this way and that. Draco felt all of his clothing, robe and all, being forced down his shoulders. _Holy hippogriff_. Draco gave a boyish giggle. He didn’t even know that was a spell that could be cast. On the whole, that had been an excellent shirt and Draco didn’t even _care_. Harry, _his_ Harry was still halfway across the fucking room, hadn’t even touched him yet, and was stripping Draco’s clothing off. Of course. Wasn’t that typical Potter? He'd had been struggling to cast a basic Patronus earlier that night, and yet throw him into the heat of things and he could wandlessly strip a person from across a room. Draco was instantly hard, and then Harry’s mouth was crashing into his, Harry’s hands were in his hair, ripping the ribbon out and letting his hair free, coiling it up in his fingers and pressing it tight to the back of Draco’s head.

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry whispered, pulling at Draco’s lower lip with his teeth and then smoothing the sting with his tongue. “I’ve _loved_ you since-- I only dreamed I’d--”

Potter was stammering again. A beautiful, stammering idiot, and Draco absolutely loved it. Because he knew exactly what Harry was trying to say. He found himself almost sobbing into Harry’s mouth as he gripped him tighter, then backed away, pulling Harry’s clothes off of him. Pulling down his scarlet robe and unfastening his tie with clumsy, eager fingers. The buttons were taking too long, even after Harry had lifted his own hands to help. Draco reached for his wand and murmured a spell that transported all of their clothing to the infernal sofa. Harry blinked at him. 

“That’s… a spell?” 

Draco smirked. Leave it to Harry Potter to invent wandless stripping spells and yet have no knowledge of more established ones. “Oh, I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises, Potter.”

Draco pulled Harry back to his mouth, pressing their bodies together. There was skin and skin and _skin_. Draco pushed Harry onto that giant bed and remained standing, if only to take a moment to _look_ at him. He still hadn’t actually _seen_ Harry like this, completely unclothed--all skin and beauty and need. The vision of Harry, naked on his back and leaning up on his elbows with wild hair and no glasses to hide the brilliance of his eyes, looking at Draco like _that_ \--all unguarded burning desire--made Draco's cock throb. He knelt on the bed and walked forward on his knees, allowing his hands to rest on the mattress at either side of Harry’s head as Draco smiled down at him.

Harry arced up and bit Draco's lower lip, pulling Draco down on top of him and running his tongue along Draco’s lips before pushing between them. Draco groaned as the heat of Harry’s center met his--the tickling of hair against his bare flesh, the way their hardened cocks pressed together. Draco thought he would lose himself in it--in mouths and skin and the way they were grinding together in a way that made Draco’s head spin. Just as Draco feared he would lose himself right then and there, Harry rolled them over until Draco was beneath him, then bent down and took one of Draco’s nipples in his mouth, running it beneath his tongue. The sensation of golden heat was overwhelming.

Draco groaned, weaving his fingers into Harry's hair.

“I’ve never--” Harry murmured as he licked his way toward Draco's other nipple. “Could you--” Harry stammered again and Draco smiled. Finally he _did_ have Potter exactly where he wanted him--panting and stammering and naked and licking him and _Merlin_.

Draco wrapped one of his legs around Harry’s and dug his fingers into Harry’s back--wanting to feel all of him, every last inch of skin as he pressed his chest against Harry’s mouth. Harry licked his way back up to Draco’s neck, pressing their bodies tightly together.

“Fuck me, Draco,” Harry whispered, his breath hot against Draco’s ear. "I want you to fuck me." Harry leaned back to meet Draco’s eyes. “Please?”

Draco closed his eyes and groaned. Harry was going to _kill_ him. He had never felt so elated and terrified in his bloody life. In one swift movement Draco pulled Harry’s mouth to his and rolled Harry onto his back.

Draco took a breath. He needed to slow down, or he was going to come untouched, for fuck’s sake. It had been a long time since _he'd_ done anything like this either, and he'd only ever _dreamed_ of doing it with Harry. He intended to relish every moment as much as possible.

Draco pressed his mouth to Harry’s neck. His chest. His navel. He followed that trail of dark hair until he flicked his tongue across the tip of Harry’s prick before sucking Harry into his mouth, delighting in how fucking good and heady he tasted. Harry hissed, arching off the mattress and Draco pulled his mouth off of his cock, biting back a smile as he pushed Harry’s hips back down.

Draco dipped two fingers into his mouth and slid them over Harry’s entrance. He watched Harry’s eyes roll back as he leaned down to suck Harry’s cock back into his mouth as he pressed one finger slowly into Harry’s opening, feeling Harry’s sphincter flutter around his finger. _Fuck_ he was so hot and tight around one finger he could only imagine how good Harry would feel around his cock. Draco hardly knew how he was even going to _fit_.

Saliva wasn’t nearly enough, especially not for Harry’s first time, so Draco cast a quiet spell to properly lube up his second finger before he slowly inched it alongside the first. Harry moaned and his cock throbbed in Draco’s mouth. Draco pulled away, worried that Harry was going to come before he wanted him to. Draco began to scissor his fingers apart, and Harry gripped the sheets tightly in his fists.

“Alright?” Draco asked throatily, hardly recognizing his own voice. Harry nodded quickly and Draco leaned back up, pressing his lips lightly against Harry’s before reaching for a pillow and wedging it beneath Harry’s hips. “Relax,” Draco swallowed, reaching for his own cock with one hand and Harry with the other. He aligned himself, the tip of his cock brushing against Harry’s opening. There was a rush of golden heat, and Draco had to bite the inside of his mouth to ground himself. Harry arched off the mattress again and threw his arm over his face, laughing at himself. Then Draco began to slowly press himself inside. Inch. By. Slow. Inch.

Merlin, this was actually happening. Draco was fucking _the_ Harry Potter. _His_ Harry Potter.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Draco breathed finally, not trusting himself to move or he might come before he had even started.

“Draco,” Harry whined, his voice breathy and hoarse and something like a desperate cry. Draco froze, afraid that he had hurt him. Harry blinked up at him dazedly, looking flushed and already thoroughly fucked. “Don’t you dare stop,” Harry whispered as he reached desperately for Draco’s hips, looking up with a fiery intensity that caused Draco to groan and lean down, pressing his forehead against Harry’s as he readjusted his weight onto his elbows. Harry lifted his chin and slid his tongue into Draco’s mouth. The sensation of being so consumed by Harry--filling and being filled--caused Draco to thrust again, harder this time. Feeling Harry around his cock was unbelievable--almost painfully hot and tight. Harry cried out--that desperate, aching moan of a sound—as Draco reached down to wrap one hand around Harry’s cock. They parted mouths and gazed at each other, desperate for breath, as Draco began to stroke.

Draco was already so on edge that when Harry began to come and the pressure tightened impossibly around Draco’s cock, Draco couldn’t hold back. With two more thrusts he came, still buried deep inside of Harry.

Draco's cock slipped free as he collapsed on top of Harry, disregarding the wet mess across Harry’s belly and chest. Draco felt completely content. His eyelashes fluttered closed against Harry’s cheek and he felt Harry’s lips at his forehead. When Draco finally caught his breath, he summoned enough energy to press a series of soft kisses to Harry’s mouth before allowing his head to fall against Harry’s shoulder. They were damp with sweat and sticky with come and neither cared.

They were silent for a long time, just listening to each other breathe.

Harry traced his fingers over Draco’s back in wide, lazy circles. Draco was drifting to sleep when he felt, as much as heard, Harry’s voice vibrating beneath him. “Why the bloody hell did we waste so many years fighting when we could have been doing _that_?”

Draco smiled against Harry’s skin and pressed his lips to Harry’s neck.

-

“I saw you tonight,” Draco said as they relaxed in the jacuzzi tub, hours later. Draco’s back was nestled tightly against Harry’s chest as steam curled around them. “The final potion took me back to third year. It was sort of like being trapped in a pensieve.”

“You found it then? The Fountain of Youth?” Harry ran his slippery fingers along Draco's arms.

“I’m not sure _what_ that was, to be honest. It may have been _a_ Fountain of Youth, but it certainly wasn’t _the_ Fountain of Youth."

Draco proceeded to tell Harry about everything he had seen, while Harry gently soaped Draco's neck and chest.

“So you just watched me _wanking_? You perv."

“I didn't _watch_!" Draco stammered defensively. "I...I _overheard_ _,_ and I didn't even..." Draco huffed. "Well what about last night, mm? You were pretty pervy yourself.”

Harry simply chuckled behind him. 

-

When Draco awoke alone in a tangle of sheets, he was briefly horrified that Harry had abandoned him. But Harry was standing in the kitchen, reading a newspaper and sipping at a cup of tea. “You left,” Draco complained, already hungry to touch Harry again. “Why did you leave?” Even in bed, Draco could read that the front page was nothing but headlines from the night before. _Death Eaters Attack Celebration. Former Death Eater Saves Harry Potter’s Life. Neville Longbottom and Ronald Weasley Rescue Minister of Magic. Hermione Granger Delivers Children from Death Eaters. Draco Malfoy Back in London High Society_. Draco’s particular favourite was a photo of Draco and Harry waltzing with the caption: _Romeo and Juliet?_

Draco dragged himself out of bed and stood behind Harry, still naked. “Who’s Juliet?” he asked, kissing Harry’s neck and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Harry laughed and turned around, hooking both arms around Draco’s waist and giving him the best good-morning kiss of Draco's life. Draco was very tempted to pull Harry back into bed and never leave, except he knew that he and Harry both had breakfast obligations downstairs.

“So what happens now?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “I suppose I’ll come back to Hogwarts and continue my research there, if it’s alright with Granger. You’re stuck with me.”

“Good," Harry grinned, but it quickly turned into a thoughtful frown. "What about the Ministry? The Manor?”

“I can still work with the Ministry from afar. I can even make the occasional appearance. Maybe I’ll bring my very famous date,” Draco nudged Harry. “We’ll be the talk of the country.”

“But your home…”

“Honestly, Harry, the Manor hasn’t been my home for a long time. We can turn it into our holiday getaway or something. A museum. An orphanage, if you like.”

Harry’s eyes twinkled. “That’d be…” Harry tangled his fingers into Draco’s hair and pulled him in for the _new_ best good-morning kiss of Draco's life. Draco moaned and pressed his growing erection into Harry’s hip as Harry broke the kiss to glance at the clock. “Do you think we have time to…?”

Draco didn’t bother to let him finish before he pulled him into another breathtaking kiss. They were on a tight schedule, after all. Best not waste a second of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forgot to include the epilogue in my original chapter count. There is one final, fluffy chapter left!


	17. Epilogue

It was a crisp September morning at Hogwarts, and Draco was sitting upright beneath his silk sheets, still naked. The Fountain of Vermouth was trickling by his transfigured desk and sunlight was pouring through his window. Draco absently pulled his lower lip between his fingers as he ran his eyes over the photographs sprawled over the emerald sheets around him. The photographs depicted walls and hieroglyphs from the Tomb of Hannu. He _had_ gone to Cairo briefly that summer, desperate to find something that he may have missed. He'd taken hundreds of photos of the walls. He'd gone over his notes endlessly and had thought himself in the same dead-end circles. He was coming to the inevitable conclusion that his attempt to find the Fountain of Youth was nearing a dead end.

Still, even without a Fountain of Youth, he'd felt younger in the last few months than he had in a very long time.

There was a swishing of silk, and he felt Harry sitting up behind him. “Morning.” Harry pressed his bare chest to Draco’s back and wrapped a lazy arm around Draco’s middle while pressing the lower half of his face against Draco’s shoulder blade. Draco relished the warm golden heat that thrummed through him at Harry's touch. "How's it going?"

Draco sighed. "I’m starting to wonder if this entire research project has been an illusion. Maybe I was so desperate to find this thing that I was seeing clues where there were none. Maybe it really _is_ lost forever. Maybe it's time to let it go.”

"Maybe," Harry conceded, his arms tightening a little around Draco. "But I'm still glad you were so obsessed with finding it. It led you back to me."

"Mushy git," Draco teased affectionately, gently nudging the side of Harry's head with his nose.

They both looked up as a stag-shaped Patronus walked through the wall and up to Harry, whispered something in his ear, and disappeared. “What does he want this time?” Draco asked. James had gotten into the habit of sending a Patronus any time he wanted to deliver a message. James still hadn’t recovered from his excitement at being able to cast one, and insisted it was far better than sending an owl. It was getting a little excessive, in Draco's opinion. Draco had been startled out of his wits on at least three occasions; he hated turning around to see an unexpected floating blue shape ghosting toward him.

“He wants us to meet on the lawns in an hour for a family picnic. He's finally going to introduce us to his girlfriend, Flora.”

“Then I suppose I should get dressed,” Draco yawned and stretched his arms high above his head.

“Not just yet,” Harry complained, nipping at Draco’s skin and soothing the sting by drawing his tongue in aimless circles. “This looks familiar,” Harry pointed to one of Draco's photographs. “Reminds me of us, a bit.” The photograph depicted wall art from the Tomb of Hannu. Two humanoid shapes held wands, facing each other as some sort of fog erupted between them. “This too,” Harry said, pointing to the photograph below it, where two more human figures pressed their hands together, emitting rays of light. “That’s kind of how I feel every time I touch you. Is that supposed to represent something?”

Draco snorted. He _did_ appreciate that Harry was trying to be supportive, but this was _his_ field, and Harry knew nothing about Wizarding Egypt or the associated hieroglyphs. Draco pointed to the second photograph. “This is the one with the potion. See it there, below their hands, emitting the--?” Draco squinted and picked up the photograph in an urgent rush of excitement. Then he picked up the first photograph Harry had pointed at, looking back and forth between them. “Merlin,” he whispered. “Harry, you’re brilliant,” Draco turned and skated his lips over Harry's.

Harry smiled against Draco's mouth and pulled him back onto the bed, deepening the kiss as he slid his tongue lazily into Draco's mouth.

“I am?” Harry whispered as he pulled away, reaching down to stroke Draco’s hardening cock between them.

Draco groaned. "Don't make me repeat myself, Potter."

"What if I want you to repeat yourself?" Harry dragged his tongue along Draco's neck.

"Your ego doesn't need the encouragement.”

Harry hummed and adjusted, digging his fingers into Draco's thighs as he dragged them over his shoulders until Draco was arching sharply off the bed, supported by his silk pillows. “Draco Malfoy thinks I’m brilliant?” Harry pressed his nose against Draco's scrotum and then explored further, flicking his tongue teasingly down Draco's crack. "Hmm?" Harry hummed, parting Draco's cheeks enough to circle his tongue lightly around Draco's arsehole.

 _"Fuck_ , Harry.” Draco adjusted his weight further onto his elbows and tried to impale himself on Harry's tongue.

Harry pressed two fingers between Draco's lips and Draco moaned, sucking them deeper into his mouth, running his tongue along the callused pads of Harry's fingertips. Harry trailed his wet fingers back down past Draco’s cock, over his bollocks, not stopping until they were pressed tightly against Draco’s puckered opening. He slid one finger gently into that tight heat and began to move in small, teasing circles. "Harry," Draco groaned again.

"What am I, Draco?" Harry asked, pressing a second finger against Draco's opening.

"A pain in the arse," Draco said mindlessly, wriggling his hips to try and urge Harry's fingers deeper. Harry was a delight in the arse, really, and that was the problem.

“I'm certain that's _not_ what you said the first time," Harry murmured, pressing kisses against the inside of Draco's thighs. "Say it again."

"Sod off," Draco repeated, completely breathless.

Harry clicked his tongue disapprovingly against the roof of his mouth and adjusted Draco's thighs until he had enough leverage to slowly drag his cock along Draco's crack. When Harry slid the head against Draco's opening, Draco whimpered and rocked his hips in anticipation.

"Tell me, Draco," Harry said huskily, taunting Draco by just barely pressing the tip of his cock inside and then retreating.

Draco nearly kicked the air in exasperation. "Fuck you, Potter." If he'd learned anything over the last few months, it was that Harry was a fucking _tease_. Draco both loved it and hated it. Granted, he was also quite content to tease Harry right back whenever possible. Draco rocked his hips, trying to push Harry deeper inside of himself, but Harry pulled his cock just out of reach. Draco felt himself pouting.

"Want something, Draco?" Harry's sexy swaggering smile could fuck right off, as far as Draco was concerned. It was doing nothing but arouse Draco further, and Harry really didn't need any additional ways to torment him.

Harry pressed two fingers inside of Draco and curled them until he was massaging Draco's prostate. Draco hissed sharply between his teeth, bucking against Harry's hand. "How about now?" Harry asked. "Brilliant?"

"Harry, _please_."

Harry removed his fingers and ran the tip of his cock against Draco's hole again. Draco's eyes rolled back when he felt the smooth, wet sensation of Harry's pre-come sliding over him, just barely _into_ him.

"Would you say we're _brilliant_ together, Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked, curving forward to press soft kisses against Draco's ribs.

“Mmm!” Draco hummed as Harry pressed forward until he was halfway inside of Draco, fucking _finally_.

...But then he slowly pulled back out and away. Draco growled his frustration and bucked his hips. "Tell me, Draco." Harry lined himself back up to Draco's entrance but lingered there, agonizingly still. "What am I?" Harry urged.

"Brilliant!" Draco gasped. "You're fucking brilliant, alright? Now fuck me already, you egomaniac."

Harry laughed softly and thrust forward until he was fully sheathed in Draco’s arse. Draco could barely breathe as the sensation of golden heat radiated from inside of him and through every part of him. He moaned, absently reaching out for any part of Harry he could touch.

Harry slowly pulled back out again and paused with the head of his cock just barely in Draco's arse, his eyes glinting darkly with desire and mischief.

"If you stop I _will_ kill you."

"No you won't," Harry said with a sly smile, bending to trace his tongue along the top of Draco's thigh. "You like me too much." To prove his point, _the absolute bastard_ , Harry pulled completely out.

"Harry," Draco practically sobbed. "I'm liking you less and less, you fucking _arsehole_."

"Say it again."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Brilliant." Harry pressed fully back inside of him. " _F_ _uck_. You're brilliant." Harry thrust again. "Mm that's good, Harry, _Merlin,_ _fuck_." Draco rolled his hips, ineffectively trying to get desperately-needed friction against his aching cock. "Brilliant. Don't stop. Keep fucking me with," Draco hissed as Harry wrapped his fist around Draco's cock and began to stroke, "that golden cock. Brilliant. Brilliant," he repeated nonsensically, letting the word roll from his tongue until he could only moan as Harry fucked him into his pillows.

Harry’s thrusts became more erratic until he plunged forward and positively growled as he came, shuddering and panting above Draco as his thighs trembled. Harry's distracted hand momentarily stilled and Draco thrust into it until Harry began stroking again. Draco's hands dug into the sheets and his vision blurred as he came, fucking Harry's fist until his chest was streaked with white.

Harry pulled out and crawled over Draco, who had already collapsed onto the bed. Harry placed soft kisses along Draco's face and then nuzzled into Draco's neck with a contented smile as he relaxed at Draco's side.

“You’re getting far too good at that,” Draco murmured, turning to drape an arm and a leg over Harry.

“Would you say...brilliant?” Harry asked teasingly.

Draco just clutched Harry and buried his face against his warm chest, giving a small grunt in response.

“So... _why_ am I brilliant exactly?”

“Oh!” Draco sat back up so quickly that he nearly dragged Harry with him. “So this whole time I was assuming that these were strictly wizarding hieroglyphs, but I'm no longer sure that's the case. I think they may be a combination of Muggle Egyptian hieroglyphs and Wizarding Egyptian hieroglyphs." Draco picked up a photograph, magically easing out the creases that he and Harry had accidentally put into them.

"What would that change?" Harry asked.

"This fog between them? In the Wizarding translation, it means ignorance, a state of the unknown. I'd always assumed that this was what the world was like _before_ the discovery of the healing potion. But if you interpret it differently, it’s actually the Muggle hieroglyph for combat. The combination of symbols here indicates to me that these two were sworn enemies.” Draco pointed at the two human figures.

"Okay..."

Draco reached for the second photograph. "In Wizarding hieroglyphs, the symbol for healing and the symbol for light are often interchangeable. But if you interpret this symbol as Muggle instead of Wizard, it means heart. _Love,_ Harry. Enemies turned lovers. See this potion vial below them, here?" Draco pointed to the small icon between the two figures holding hands. "I always assumed that the light in this image was symbolic of the _effect_ of the potion, but I think I might be wrong. I think it's the vital ingredient, instead."

Harry scrunched his forehead.

"Rather than drinking a potion to _receive_ this healing effect, they are _instilling_ the potion with it. So Harry, I think you’re brilliant because I think you’re exactly right. I think it _is_ us. Enemies turned lovers. Their love as a magical healing light." Draco tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Somehow they must have been able to harness it and bottle it as a healing potion.”

"But there _have_ to be other enemies turned lovers besides _us_. Why wouldn't anyone else know about this magic? Why would it be so rare?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe something else is at work. Some kind of bond."

"Like soulmates?"

Draco picked up some of the other photographs. "Depending on how this is translated, the story could indicate that their magic became so harmoniously entwined, so _fused_ together, that they could even share the same wand."

"That _also_ sounds familiar..."

"It must be a very rare connection, but _how_ does it work?" Draco flipped through photograph after photograph, re-examining each one. "Why? Even if this is an accurate interpretation, I still need to figure out the significance of it, determine what that means for us, confirm if there’s a way to harness that power to heal anyone else, and...”

“Or you could be a Gryffindor about the whole thing and just accept that you and I are brilliant without over-analyzing every little detail.”

“ _What_?" Draco looked at Harry, scandalized. "When there’s perfectly good overthinking to do? Where would my career be if I _didn't_ over-analyze everything? What a dreadful idea.”

"I suppose this is why we need Slytherins." Harry chuckled and wrapped his arms around Draco. “You realize, of course, that this means you are never allowed to leave me.” Harry tightened his hold until Draco could barely breathe.

“Never,” Draco agreed, kissing Harry’s temple.

“It’s fate. It’s cosmic. It’s written on walls.”

Draco laughed and mussed Harry’s hair. “Come on, we have a picnic to get to.” Draco was actually looking forward to resting in the grass in the September sun, lazily eating an apple or (finally) reading a newspaper with his head in Harry's lap as James, Lily, and Albus excitedly chatted with them.

Draco never would have thought that he could actually have this: a full life. He never thought that he would feel so full and loved, especially after so many years of misery and hardship. He certainly never thought that he could have it with Harry. After everything they had gone through, Draco knew that they would be alright, because they finally had each other. In a way, they'd had each other all along. Draco felt stupidly joyful and way-too-deep in love every morning when he woke up with Harry Potter at his side. It should have been impossible, but it was his life. His delightfully good life.

“We can be a _little_ late, I think.” Harry ignored all of Draco’s attempts to escape, clinging to him like a spider monkey as he sucked at Draco’s neck.

“You can't possibly want to go again _already._ Besides, I need to take a few notes and re-assess my research considering these new developments,” Draco said, returning his focus to the photographs still in his hands.

"Later." Harry cast his wandless, silent _Accio_ at the photographs and they darted into his hand before he tossed them safely to the floor. “Plus, if you're going to be doing more research, I think I’d better assist with the experiments,” Harry purred, pulling Draco back down onto the bed. “You know, for science.”

All thoughts of Draco's research were, at least temporarily, forgotten. “Harry Potter, you _minx."_ Draco rolled over until Harry was beneath him, trapped between his thighs. "Now let's see how _you_ like being at _my_ mercy, hmm? I've read about this mind-blowing thing you can do with magic during sex that may or may not be illegal in several countries."

"You _what_?" Harry cackled his surprise.

Draco smirked, reaching for Harry's wrists and pressing them to the mountain of silk pillows above his head. "Scared, Potter?"

Harry lifted a provocative eyebrow. "You wish," he said, his tone a challenge.

Draco threw the covers over their heads as they pressed their mouths together, giggling like schoolboys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! I don't know about you, but I needed some sweet, sweet Drarry escapism. I figured it was time to pull out this old fic, brush off the dust, and finally post it. It certainly hasn't been doing anyone any good by hiding on my computer for the last two years.
> 
> Thank you so, SO much everyone for your generous kudos and amazingly kind comments (seriously, ohmygosh)! You are all fabulous! I appreciate each and every one of you. Please take care of yourselves, my friends! Love, love, love. <3


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